


People Who Move the World

by WithTheKeyIsKing



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF James Bond, BAMF Jim Moriarty, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, BAMF Q, Backstory, Brothers, Criminal Masterminds, Drug-Induced Hallucinations, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John is Perfect, Loyalty, Murder, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft IS the British Government, Protective Alec Trevelyan, Q Backstory, Q Has A Smidge of PTSD, Q is a moriarty, Q is not a Damsel in Distress, Secret Identity, Sherlock Being Sherlock, So does Q but don't tell him that, Torture, so much murder and crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-05-04 16:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 94,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14597124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing
Summary: When James Moriarty (the younger) was six, he witnessed James Moriarty (the older) plan the perfect murder of a classmate bully.When James Moriarty (the younger) was twenty-one, he began working for MI6 in the Q-branch department.(Things, of course, are never really that simple, and just get more complicated from there.)





	1. The Two Jameses

**Author's Note:**

> So I've always loved the "Q is a Holmes" stories, but I got an idea to shift that slightly - what if Q wasn't the third Holmes, but the second Moriarty?  
> ~~  
> Also, as an observation, I seem to really be in the "Q-And-Jim" mood. Just put out two stories where they're in a slightly-fucked-up relationship and now I'm doing one with them as brothers. I'll eventually run out of steam in this topic, I suppose, but until then you followers are stuck with me on this ride :)

When James Moriarty (the younger) was six, he witnessed James Moriarty (the older) plan the perfect murder of a classmate bully.

The two Jameses had always been close, bonded by being far smarter than everyone else in their small town and by the fact that their father had been too drunk to pick a different name when his second son came around three years after his first.

So when The Younger Jamesfour days after giving his input on botulinum toxin as an effective means of death  _(in a hypothetical scenario)_ saw The Older James hiding a pair of shoes under the floorboards of their room, he simply smiled and went back to the science project he'd been working on.

All anyone could talk about for the next month was the sad death of poor Carl Powers. A seizure in the water, they said. How sad.  _(The Younger smiled every time he was able to walk to his next class without getting shoved into a locker, the bully now six feet under. The Older was positively glowing.)_

When James Moriarty (the younger) was nine, he helped James Moriarty (the older) kill their recently widowed mother.

Their father's death earlier that year was all The Younger James' doing, actually, though whether it was completely intentional or not changed in the boy's opinion from day to day. One minute their father had been chugging a glass of scotch, the next he'd been gulping down a few shots of Sulphuric acid and burning up from the inside out.

Another accident, concluded the police. James Moriarty (Senior) had had a little too much to drink and had picked up a glass from his younger son's chemistry set. Devastating, yes, but an easy mistake and no one's fault.

 _(The detectives advised the Jameses' mother to put the younger one in therapy, since feeling responsible for the death could be traumatizing. The Younger had_ accidentally _left his chemistry equipment on the living room table, after all, right next to their father's glass._ _Their mother, as she lost herself in a bottle of pills, did no such thing. Both Jameses went to bed smiling, no fresh bruises on their arms.)_

Their  _mother's_ death, however...

The Younger James walked into the kitchen one morning to see their mother hunched over in a wooden chair, shaking, her elder son standing next to her with a large knife in his hand. His expression was set in the way The Younger recognized from the morning of Carl Powers' death. He was twirling the knife slightly. Their mother was whimpering under her breath; when The Younger strained his ears, the sounds made the shapes of pleas.

"Why?" The Younger James asked, because the pieces didn't add up in his head. Carl Powers had bullied them since the moment they'd moved from Dublin to Sussex. Their father had beaten them from practically the moment they exited the womb. Their mother, howevershe was mostly useless as a mother, yes, but she'd never done anything _against_ them. The Younger James hated when puzzle pieces didn't fit.

The Older James smiled widely at his little brother, but the happiness of it was brief before that set expression took over his features once more.

_(Some years from then, The Younger would ask his elder brother what had made him smile in that moment. The Older would tell him that he'd felt a flash of joy because The Younger hadn't been objecting to the murder that was about to occur, only trying to understand it. It had, to The Older, been a very important moment in their relationship.)_

"It's time to cut the heartstrings, Jamie," The Older James trilled. Now that he was watching, The Younger could see that his brother's handthe one holding the knifewas shaking. "We're more, and she's so much  _less,_ she'll hold us back with her softness, so we need to..."

The Older James was devolving right before The Younger's eyes, whichwhile not something he'd seen beforewas not a  _surprise_ to the younger; his brother, though far more prone to committing vicious acts, was also far more emotional than him. Not that he'd ever say that to the other, or that the elder would ever admit it.

The Younger James walked forward, not stopping until he was right next to his elder brother, and wrapped his hand around the other James' where it was grasping the knife handle. He waited until the elder met his eyes, gaze wild and manic, and rose an eyebrow. "Well?" he asked quietly. James the Older blinked once, twice, then grinned and plunged their intertwined hands forward, shoving the knife deep into their mother's neck.

It was The Older James' idea to burn the house down to cover what they'd done. It was The Younger James' idea to dig up two child bodies to place by their mother and make it look like they'd died with her. They came up with the idea to take everything of value when they left simultaneously.

They spent the next eight years making new thems, complete with multiple identities and various personas, crimes still following in their wake. Murderers, thieves, geniuses, sociopaths, criminals, children,  _geniuses_ The Younger James wasn't quite sure what they were, but The Older seemed to be confident enoughor _happy_ enoughin their themness so The Younger didn't let it concern him.

The Older James had a way of making people like him. No, that wasn't quite itThe Older James  _became_ someone that whoever they were talking to would like. The Younger James wasn't as good an actor as his elder brother  _(it was like looking at a completely different person, every mannerism and movement and word different)_ but it didn't matter much; he was brilliant in so many other fashions.

The two of them complimented each other, The Younger James liked to think; The Older was fire, volatile and sharp and ever-changing. He was made of whims and emotions and every action was hinged on his  _mood._ He could be perfectly ordinary one moment and then absolutely murderous the next. It wasn't  _heart_ that drove himJames The Older was most certainly not a  _heartfelt_ manbut one did not need  _heart_ to look at a person and understand them so completely and then just as thoroughly take them apart.

The  _Younger_ James, on the other hand...

The Younger James was ice, clear and sharp and precise. He was based in logic and balance and was driven by the way things clicked together _just so_ to make everything work. He never let his feelings impact his decisions  _(except when it came to The Older, but then again The Older was always the exception),_ but he tended to _feel_ more than his elder brother. Then again, he also controlled himself a lot better than The Older, too.

Both of them were dangerous, deadly; two types of the same kind of weapon.

When The Younger James was thirteen he stopped _being_ The Younger James and became The  _Only_ James because the elderas their shadowed business picked upstarted going by Jim, which their clients found to be much less confusing.  _(James was pretty sure that Jim had found_ _that confusion_ hysterical, _and missed it just a smidge post-change.)_

At age fifteen James was kidnapped by a mafia boss who had been offended by Jim's superior tone in their meeting. The manand his underlingshad not been kind or gentle; the scars they left would be with James for the rest of his life, but luckily the fear of touch he'd developed after their... _attention_ didn't last for more than a couple months post-rescue.

 _(He was with them for two weeks before Jim found him. He didn't blame his brother for taking too long; after all they_ were _the Russian mafia_ , _and when the elder Moriarty arrived he murdered them all and let James empty a clip into the main perpetrator's face. It had felt_ extremely _therapeutic.)_

 _(Sadly, just like the scars, James would never_ _escape his dislike of prolonged physical contact.)_

When James was eighteen, he and his brother separated. James wanted to travel the world but their organization was just starting to become a real threat  _(The Moriarty name being whispered through the underworld)_ , so Jim couldn't bring himself to up and leave.

James continued to work as he traveled, though; his plans for crimes were always  _perfect,_ and with the digital age coming to full effect he was in the zone, hacking whatever suited his fancy. Jim teased him about staying behind his computer screen and not being in the streets of London with him, but James could tease right back; Jim might've enjoyed killing more, but  _neither_ brother liked getting their hands dirty.

Because of the widening knowledge of the  _Moriarty_ name, James began putting together an intricate alias, building a whole life and background. He had many lighter aliases, but James was very proud of _Oliver James_ , freelance coder, upper-British-class, early Oxford grad, genius. James liked incorporating just enough of himself to make it easy to slip into, because Oliver was his back-up plan in case any authorities caught wind of him.

Which, three years later,  _did_ happen.

James certainly did  _not_ appreciate being shoved into a metal chair by some beef-head agent. He  _also_ did not appreciate having a black bag pulled over his head and being bodily forced into a van and taken god-knows-where, but his kidnappers had already heard him grumbling about that during the ride to wherever they were.

 _"What do you want?"_ James asked in Hindihis accent _perfect_ since they were in Kolkata. Briefly, the hacker wondered why a group of British agents would fly halfway around the world just to grab him, but that line of thinking led to the name  _Moriarty,_ which James was  _desperately_ hoping this had nothing to do with. He and Jim had been perfectly carefultheir name was only a whisper, not identified by any major agencies, and certainly not tied to either of their faces.

"I believe English is perfectly acceptable, if you would, Mr. James," the man in a suit sitting on the other side of the table said smoothly. His hands were folded neatly in his lap and his expression was pleasantly blank, his voice polite to a T.  _So very British,_ the Dublinite thought wryly.

Then the use of the name registered, along with a flash of relief and pride. They didn't know he was anything other than Oliver James. "Alright," James said in the precise syllables of the British upper-class, glancing around nervously. The last time he'd been alone in an abandoned, grimy building with a bunch of annoyed-looking men, bad things had happened to him. "Then I'll repeat the question: What do you want?"

"You attracted some attention at MI6, Mr. James," the suited man told him, raising an eyebrow.

Unableand unwillingto contain his reaction, James scoffed and rolled his eyes. "No, I haven't," James said smoothly, leaning calmly back in his chair. "MI6 has been nowhere near anything I've been doing, so on the  _off-chance_ you guys caught wind of  _something,_ it still wouldn't've been enough to send a full team halfway around the world just to get me. So what  _actually_ brought you to my doorstep, Agent?"

For a moment, the agent looked utterly stunned.  _He should work on that if he wants a continued career in espionage,_ James mused. Then the manquite grudginglyrevealed, "Four months ago we took someone into custody for various terrorism charges. To try to cut a deal he told us about a freelance hacker he'd hired some time ago. You should be proud; it took us  _quite_ a long time to figure out who you are, Mr. James, and then even longer to actually track you down."

"Thank you," James said crisply, then, "So what do you want?" In his mind, he was going over a million different plans for escaping. For some reason, they hadn't handcuffed him, and they weren't immediately putting him on a plane to be tried in England. They wanted  _something_ from him, and that meant he would have many opportunities to get out of their custody.

"Alright," the agent said, irritated by James' impatience. "Your skills are incredible, and useful. So instead of sending you to jail, MI6 would like to offer you a job in our Q-Branch department."

* * *

Jim laughed. Hysterically. Which James really didn't appreciate.

"This isn't funny," he snapped into the phone, glaring at the British flag on the wall in front of him like it had personally offended him.

"Oh, yes, it really is," his brother cackled. James could hear the shit-eating grin on the elder Moriarty's face. "Since we started doing what we're doing,  _you_ have been the expert catchy-avoider. And now-!" Jim cracked up again.

James closed his eyes and counted to ten, taking a slow, deep breath. His brother could be  _infuriating._

The younger Moriarty could feel the subtle attention of the MI6 agent who was acting at his guard, but it didn't matter; they'd allowed him access to a phone and he'd used a device hidden in his sleeve to scramble the signal so they couldn't trace the call or actually make out any words. If Jim had listened to anything he'd talked about over the years, he was using a similar device on his end.

"Catchy-avoider?" James asked with forced calm.

Jim giggled. "What happened to being the  _planner,_ Jamie-James? You went and got caught by MI6 and now you're gonna-" he laughed again, "-gonna  _work_ for them! My baby Jamie, a government agent!" Then, as was Jim's custom, his mood changed in an instant, becoming far more serious. "So who do I need to kill? What's the plan, planner?"

James smiled. For all his brother's craziness, Jim was very protective of him. To a murderous level.

"I've been debating that actually," James replied casually. He eyed his guard, who was doing a pretty good job of pretending not to be listening. He lowered his voice. "But I don't think that's going to be as easy as either of us think. This isn't the mob or some terrorists, J; the British government isn't letting me go. They have a Double-Oh as my personal guard, for hell's sake."

The agent looked over at James with a raised, surprised eyebrow, which confirmed that his guess about the man's title was correct. James shot the agent a smug smirk.

"A Double-Oh?" Jim asked, sounding interested. "How  _lovely!_ I've always wanted a pet one of those. Does he look super deadly? I bet it's _super_ hot. Alsothis high-class Brit accent of yours? _Killer,_ darling."

James rolled his eyes but smiled at the praise. "Back to the point of the conversation?" he prompted.

In his mind, James could see the dismissive hand Jim was waving through the air. "You  _don't_ want me storming the castle, understood. Which means..." the giddy smile in his voice was obvious. "I now have an inside man. How wonderful! Keep me updated, Jamie-James."

James nodded decisively. "Will do." He hung up and put the phone back on its receiver, stealthily removing his device and sliding it back into his sleeve. When he turned around, he saw the Double-Oh watching him with a raised eyebrow, waiting.

The agent was about six feet, maybe just under, with light brown hair and green eyes. He was wearing an expensive-looking black suit over a gray shirt. James could count two gunsankle holster and shoulder holsterand a knife tucked into his belt. He stood with his back to the wall in a spot that allowed him a perfect view of the entire room and a quick exit to the door. He was attractive, if you were into the whole _could-kill-you-with-my-pinky_ thing.

James was; intelligence and competence tended to do it for him, especially when those two traits combined with  _deadly._

The agent pushed himself off the wall and offered his hand to shake. "Alec Trevelyan, Double-Oh-Six," the man told him in a smooth, confident accent. "Quite a lot of fuss for little you." There was a smirk attached to his lips, one that said he knew he was attractive and used deflection as a first line of defense. Briefly, James wondered if all Double-Ohs were this transparent.

But _oh._ The  _name._ James had tracked  _that_ name down quite a long time ago.

James smirked right back at him, one that said he knew more than you and was never afraid to use the knowledge, and then took the agent's hand. "You should know better than most that appearances can be deceiving, Agent Trevelyan," James said pleasantly.

The Double-Oh tilted his head in question. "Oh? I'm sorry, but do we know each other?"

"Not officially," James said graciously. It looked like Jim might get a pet Double-Oh agent after all. "But we've worked together in the past. In your..." his lips twitched,  _"other_ identity."

The agent's guard going up was actually visible, and if James were Jim, he would've cooed. "I'm sorry?" Trevelyan said again, but his voice was tenser this time around.

James smiled. "Don't play dumb,  _Janus,"_ he murmured, "you're quite the fantastic arms dealer, and a good business man. I believe we have quite a lot to discuss."

The look on Trevelyan's face was that of someone unsure of what they'd just gotten themselves into, but thankfully up to the challenge.

"Oh," James said with a sharp grin, already picturing Jim's excited crow when he learned that the infamous arms dealer they liked to use was an MI6 Double-Oh agent, "this is going to be _fun."_

To James' surpriseand utter delightTrevelyan, while still looking slightly off-balance in the situation, smirked and nodded. "Yes, I think it just might be."

* * *

After a month of working for MI6, the members of Q-branch started calling James  _S,_ to both Moriarty brothers' amusement.

In Q-Branch, the only official titles were  _Q_ obviouslyand  _R,_ Q's right-hand. But since from the moment James had started working there he'd been improving all of their systems and coming up with things no one had ever thought of, the workers had teasingly nicknamed him  _S,_ third in command, and three month later it seemed to have stuck.

Even more shocking than that was that all the workerseven ones who had been in MI6  _far_ longer than Jamesseemed to start  _thinking_ of him as third in command, going to him whenever Commander Boothroyd or R weren't available. James had to admithe  _really_ liked the power of that.

In light of the new nickname, Jim had taken to calling James  _Q,_ since he'd basically been their Quartermaster for the past twelve years, and the elder Moriarty felt it was a fitting name considering James' new position. Normally James would've completely ignored his brother's flights of fancy regarding nicknames, but he rather liked the symmetry of it, and jokingly called Jim  _M_ once, which had put _way_ too many ideas in his brother's head.

Jim, as James- _Q_ had predicted, had been overjoyed when he learned about Alec Trevelyan, and putting the two of them in a room together had been easy. Alec had emerged looking severely uncomfortable but with a newfound allegiance to the _Moriarty_ name and Jim had emerged with a shit-eating grin and a brand new knife for his little brother as a thank you.

A bonus to making Agent Trevelyan a Moriarty Organization employee (other than the various  _obvious_ reasons) was that the Double-Oh had seemed to take it upon himself to act as Q's guardian. Which in the beginning was  _incredibly_ annoying, but became far less so when Q got the agent to lighten up a bit and give him some more room, and he still had a Double-Oh loyally watching his back.

At MI6, Q rather liked M. She was a hard-ass, took nobody's shit, and had a tendency to yell rather than to praise, but she was damn good at her job and looked after her people. His first week at MI6 she'd given him a terse speech about loyalty and the price of betrayal (which Q had nodded along to with a grave expression) and then mostly left him to his own devices. In the fewbriefencounters they'd had since then, Q got the feeling that she grudgingly liked him, simply because he was terribly good at his job.

Olivia Mansfield, of course, did  _not_ need to know that he was subtly manipulating missions to keep MI6 away from Moriarty assets.

* * *

"Now's not a good time, Jim," Q barked as he answered his cellphone, bracing the device between his shoulder and ear as he rapidly tapped at his keyboard. A mission had gone just about as horribly wrong as it possibly could and Q was rushing to track down their four missing agents before the terrorists that had captured them blew their heads off, as they had done with the last three MI6 agents they'd gotten their hands on.

"Someone tried to kill me!" Jim chirped, as if it were the best news in the world.

Q's fingers stilled momentarily, a cold feeling gripping his heart, and then he forced himself to keep working even though most of his focus was now directed somewhere else. Never let it be said he couldn't multitask. "Oh?" he asked, perfectly calm, perfectly forced. He itched for his knives. "And you sound so happy about that because...?"

"He's a freelance mercenary," Jim supplied helpfully. "A colonel dishonorably discharged from her majesty's army. He was hired by that French chick who offed her father last yearremember her? The one with the funky eye?"

"Lila Piaget?" Q frowned, remembering the incident. A young woman had hired them to kill her brothers and father so that she could inherit their extensive wealth. They'd completed the job easilyone just like many othersbut she'd tried to short them the money she owed so Jim set her up for the murders. She'd gone to jail. "So she was pissed she took the fall for it, then? We never met in personhow'd she even know what you look like?"

"She didn't, Q," Jim rushed to say, tone excited. "She hired Sebastian Moran to find and kill  _Moriarty,_ and Moran managed to track me down!"

The hacker knew of Sebastian Moran; he'd been keeping an eye on the guy in case he came in use one day, or in case he became trouble. "Ok, the fact that a high-profile assassin managed to find you, Jim, is not a  _good_ thing," Q sighed. "I  _do_ hope you sound so excited because you got to try out some new form of painful murder on the man and it worked."

"Nope," Jim replied, popping the  _'P'._ "I _sound so excited_ because I hired him." Q stilled completely. "Now, now, Jamie-James, calm those  _Oh-My-God-Jim_ thoughts of yours! He's just our kind of guy. Rougher around the edges than AlecMoran's definitely _not_ a spybut still a perfect killer!"

"Jim," Q said patiently, resuming his work.  _There!_ A location. He sent the coordinates to the Double-Oh on the ground and closed his laptop with satisfaction. "The fact that he was hired to kill you and now has switched to working for you just because youwhat?offered more money doesn't say good things about his loyalty. With people who know what you look likeand who'll know about  _me_ we need surefire loyalty."

"Ye of little faith," Jim mused. "Yes, he was hired to kill me, but he  _didn't._ He tracked me down, killed Danny who was standing guardwhich I stabbed Moran for, by the way, since I  _liked_ Dannyand then told me who had hired him, pointed out that he could easily do it right in that moment, and then saidand I fucking quote! _you_ _clearly need better people to watch your skinny ass seeing how easy it was for me to get here._ I stabbed him for that impertinence, too, actually. And I hired him!"

Q took a deep breath, counting to ten, and nodded slowly. "Alright, you have a point." Jim made a smug sound, causing Q to roll his eyes. He opened his laptop again and hacked the army database (easy), pulling up Sebastian Moran's file. "Great catch, actually," Q admitted, looking the information over. Jim made another sound, this one very pleased. "Psych evals show that he was far more loyal to his commanding officer than the army as a whole, which means loyalty to individuals over ideals or organizations, which-"

"Which you like, yes, I know," Jim finished for him in exasperation. "Your year and a half at MI6 hasn't changed you at all."

"Which is far more  _useful,"_ Q shot back.

"Weren't you in the middle of something?" Jim asked. Q could practically hear him rolling his eyes.

Q smirked. "I'm good at multitasking."

* * *

"Hello, brother dear," Jim greeted as soon as Q answered the phone.

"As of late you have seriously had the worst timing," Q grunted in response. It was true; this was the seventh time in the past two months Jim had called  _right_ when something had gone wrong on a mission or when Q was in the middle of an important project. If one were a more suspicious person, one might think that Jim was somehow doing it on purpose.

Jim was most  _definitely_ doing it on purpose.

"It's a gift," Jim agreed lightly. "But this time I'm afraid it's more serious than asking your opinion on Westwood versus Prada."

Q frowned. "Give me a moment," he asked, and Jim hummed in acknowledgment.

The hacker leaned back from his computer and glanced around the Q-branch work stations. He was almost done with the coding he'd been working on, and normally he'd want to take the project all the way to the end, but the tone of Jim's voice was serious. So instead he called over a newbie brancher named Caleb that Q liked because he was brilliant and seemed to worship the ground Q walked on.

"Cal, can you finish this up for me?" he asked the boy politely. "Only thing left to do is tighten the top two layers of security, which I've already laid the groundwork for, but there's something I have to handle."

Caleb nodded eagerly. He looked a bit like a puppy when he did that, his brown hair flopping all over the place, his baby-face cheeks wobbling slightly. He was only eighteen. "Of course! No problem S, not at all." He was so strangely  _earnest._ And startlingly innocent, considering he worked for MI6. Then again, he'd only started a month ago, so Q supposed there was still time for the boy to harden.

In his three years working for MI6, Q had seen people toughen up _very_ quickly when faced with what they really did.

"Thanks," Q said, smiling genuinely. He tapped out a brief command on his desktop. "I sent the program to your computer." Caleb smiled brilliantly in return and immediately got to work.

Q picked up his phone again. "Alright, Jim, what's going on?"

"Someone's meddling with our things," his brother replied, tone contemplative. "Not hitting anything  _too_ important, but some of our lower-level enterprises are being dismantled by our people being arrested." Q opened his mouth, but Jim knew what he was going to ask before he did. "I emailed you the list of things that have been messed with. It's only three so far, but it's three too many for my liking, and all within two months."

Q immediately pulled up his email and looked at what Jim had sent him. One of their lower-level drug dealers had been taken out, along with the two of the men who worked with him and the chemist that made the stuff. The second thing listed was a serial killer Jim had been sponsoring, some woman who enjoyed cutting people up and eating them. The third was the theft of a priceless vase they'd done for a rich collector.

Looking at the police reports showed Q that no one had revealed that they had someone backing them, which was very good, but the fact that they'd been taken down at all _(especially_ the collector, because stealing that vase had gone _perfectly)_ was worrying.

"Have the police decided to finally be competent?" Q murmured, talking more to himself than Jim. His brother, being aware of that, didn't reply. Q checked to see who the detectives in charge of the cases were and found that it was the same man on all three. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade," Q said, mulling it over.

Jim hummed in agreement. "I checked him out; it seems that in the last eight months his rate of solving cases has practically doubled. I don't know why, but I'm going to find out."

The tone of the elder Moriarty's voice was vicious; he never did like people messing with his things, and Q had to admit this was worrying. Still, Q didn't think murdering a DI was a good idea, especially considering  _something_ had clearly occurred to bump up the man's intelligence. There could be something useful there.

"Do me a favor and don't kill DI Lestrade," Q sighed, leaning back in his chair and glaring at the photo of the graying man in his police uniform on his computer screen.

"He's a fly, minuscule in importance," Jim said, and Q wasn't sure whether that was an agreement or an argument. The hacker waited, and Jim sighed theatrically. "He's unimportant," Jim repeated as if it were a great crime, "not worth killing. Whatever has made him  _smart,_ on the other hand..."

Q smiled. "Let me know what you find."

"Of  _course,_ brother dear," Jim purred. "Happy coding!"

* * *

That night, Jim broke into Q's apartment and slipped into his bed, curling up face to face like when they were small children. Q didn't ask, simply scooted over and waited in the silence.

He'd almost fallen back asleeplulled by the familiar pattern of Jim's breathingwhen his brother spoke, barely above a whisper. "Carl Powers. The shoes."

Q frowned. They hadn't talked much about Carl Powers in the past eighteen years, nor about their father after his death or their mother after hers. A few brief comments here and there throughout the years, but those three deaths had formed something of a Holy Trinity for them and talking about them always felt far heavier than all the people they'd killed since then.

"What about him? What about the shoes?" Q asked, matching his brother's whisper of a voice.

Jim was silent for a long time after that, and Q let the silence last, knowing that Jim needed the time but still not quite understanding. Jim had always been controlled by emotions, sometimes brought low by them, but this softness he was exhibiting was something...rare. Something  _new,_ really.

"I found the brains behind Gregory Lestrade," Jim said, and then stopped. Q counted thirty-seven seconds before Jim continued. "There was a boy way back when that had said Powers' death wasn't an accident."

Q's heartrate spiked. "And you're only telling me this  _now-?"_ he hissed, feeling a spike of betrayal. Eighteen years and Jim had never thought to _mention_ that?

But Jim was already shaking his head, still so muted. It was starting to worry Q. "I didn't know back then, not until a couple hours ago. There was a boy in London and he said that Carl Powers' death wasn't an accident because his  _shoes_ were missing. The shoes I took from the locker room because I'm a sentimental  _fool._ I don't know how he knew but he did. No one believed him, obviously, but..." Twelve seconds. "Well he's all grown up now and he's not a policeman but he's helping them solve cases. He's _brilliant_ and _beautiful_ and..."

This was...a lot to process. And it was clear as day how important this was to Jim. His voice was filled with awe and he whispered as if raising his voice would make it all wash away and not be real anymore. Q supposed he understood where Jim was coming from; he'd just learned that someone had  _seen_ him, another child had seen him and started their life course in that moment as well. That kind of connectionit must've felt like a lot. Q couldn't imagine. All he'd ever had was Jim.

Q felt a pang of jealousyof momentary self-pityin his chest. It had always been just him and Jim from the beginning. And now...

"What's him name?" Q asked, because his own feelings didn't matter when it came to the way Jim was speaking.

Forty-two seconds. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He goes by Sherlock."

Q twitched, his jaw dropping open in a silent gasp, because  _no._ No fucking  _way._ It had to be a coincidence, because there was no possible  _way_ Jim had chosen the brother of the man who was steadily becoming one of the most powerful men in England. There was no way Jim would attach a fucking _connection_ to Mycroft Bloody Holmes' family.

"Please tell me-" Q started.

"Looks like genius runs in the family," Jim mused, knowing the question.

"Shit," Q cursed. He sat up, running a hand through his hair.  _"Shit."_

"They're separate entities, Jamie," Jim said, as if Q really needed to be told that. Q shot him a look and his brother held up his hands in surrender. "Mycroft Holmes is a potential threat, I know, it's why we've been tracking his progress. And Sherlock is, too, obviously, or we wouldn't be having this conversation but  _Jamie..."_

The look in Jim's eyes... _Shit._ God help Q, because he'd never been able to deny his brother  _anything._ From the moment Jim took a punch from their father for Q at four years old Q had been 100%  _his,_ and the loyalty ran deep, right into the hacker's core. And Jim had decided something about Sherlock Holmes that meant the sort-of-detective wasn't going away any time soon.

"He's a lot like you," Jim said softly, after Q had been glaring at the wall for a while. The younger Moriarty looked at the elder in question. Jim smiled. "He's sharp and cold and logical and simply  _adores_ puzzles and gets excited when every piece falls into place. And he looks like you, too; a thick mop of black hair and pale eyes and pale skin. Maybe that's why I like him so much, Jamie-James, because he's just another version of  _you."_

That made Q feel a little bit better, which then made him feel embarrassed in turn because the fact that he'd been upset at all was ridiculous.

"Alright," Q murmured. "Alright. Whatever you need."

Jim shook his head as if Q were an idiot but didn't say anything, simply pulled Q back down to lie with him, curled together like when they were small children. Neither fell asleep for a long while, but when they did it was peaceful, comforted by the presence of the one person in the world who completely understood the other.


	2. The Elder Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a crush is formed, a plan is started, panic attacks happen, and feelings are AWFUL.

Sherlock Holmes was not a topic they discussed often, but when they did, it was long and lengthy and always left Q feeling slightly exhausted.

They kept surveillance on him, distant but present, and stealthily tried to move him away from any of their operations when he got a bit too close. He was starting to build up a reputation for himself as a brilliant man (a  _consulting detective,_ as he was calling himself, which made Jim laugh at the symmetry and even brought a faint smile to Q's lips) but also a complete and utter asshole.

Jim was right that Q and Sherlock had a _lot_ in common, but at least Q had manners.

To Q's surprise, Jim didn't try to woo Sherlock or approach him or bring him into the fold. The elder Moriarty seemed content to just occasionally watch the detective, and life proceeded as normal for the two criminal masterminds.

Another year passed, then another. R was killed in a hit-and-run and M gave Q the job, officially putting him in a position of power in Q-branch, not that much actually changed for himeveryone in Q-branch had already followed his orders as if he was in charge. Still, it was nice to have an official command and claim to power. Boothroyd only had to croak and Q would actually become  _Q._

_(Simply murdering the elderly Quartermaster was exceedingly tempting.)_

One day Boothroyd came down with the flu, which left Q in charge of the branch for about a week. Everything was running smoothly until Day Four, when literal  _hell_ broke loose. Three different Double-Oh missions  _and_ four separate other missions simultaneously went horribly wrong, everyone's covers blown somehow, and it was a race to save as many of them as they could while  _also_ trying to salvage the missions and figure out where the leak of information had come from.

Amidst all the chaos, Q  _thrived._ He directed the minions effortlessly, commanding the room and directing the agents over all their different comms. He was a whirlwind, a force to be reckoned with, and he loved  _every. Fucking. Moment of it._

When the dust settled and everything was finished (two agents were killed and one mission was completely blown and needed some serious damage control, but three Double-Ohs and sixteen agents all came back relatively unscathed) Q finally sat down and smiled, utterly satisfied with his work.

"Well done, R," Q heard a crisp, female voice tell him, and the hacker twitched in surprise; he hadn't realized M had come in. When had she entered? Everything had been so hecticit could've been ages or minutes. Q detested the fact that he hadn't noticed.

"Thank you, Ma'am," he said as he turned in his desk chair to face her, a tired smile on his lips. He'd been up for thirty-seven hours, a majority of that time on his feet handling clusterfuck after clusterfuck. He was looking forward to a relaxing cup of Earl Gray and a long nap on the couch in his office.

He instantly felt wide awake when he saw who was standing next to M, the pair making their way towards him.

"I must agree with M," Mycroft Holmes said, looking at Q with an appraising eye and an approving tilt to his lips. "You truly handled this situation brilliantly."

Q pushed past the feeling of  _Holy Shit Fuck Fuck Fuck_ and smiled at the man, standing up to greet him and M. "Thank you very much, Sir. I apologize, but I don't think I'm familiar with you." He shouldn't be, at least. They wouldn't expect him to be.

Amusement flashed across Holmes' face, but Q was pretty sure it had less to do with Q and more to do with the man being pleased by his own anonymity. He extended his hand to shake. "No, we wouldn't've crossed paths. I'm Mycroft Holmes, I hold a minor position in MI5. I was simply visiting an old friend when everything over here seemed to explode."

A minor position.  _Ha!_ What a joke. And he just  _happened_ to be in the building when everything went to shit? No, Q didn't buy that for a second; what probably happened was all the missions exploded, as he said, and Mycroft Holmes showed up because he held a  _major_ position in the British governmenthe practically  _was_ the government, for Christ's sakeand was coming to see how they were handling the various situations.

Q took the offered hand and shook it. "You got quite the eyeful, then, for a  _minor_ position," Q said easily, because he didn't much care if he showed that he didn't believe Mycroft's line. "I _do_ hope M has you sign some confidentiality agreements, or something..."

Both Holmes and M looked at him, startled, but M's expression switched to smug only a second later; she was proud of him for catching it, and Q accepted the happiness inside him that came along with her praise.

"Why of course," Holmes agreed, playing along and looking at Q with renewed interest. "I'd  _never_ want to reveal anything that could betray our great nation."

"Of course," Q agreed, a smile tugging at his lips. Realizing that he was still shaking the hacker's hand, Holmes blinked and let go, then cleared his throat.

"Well, I won't keep you from getting some rest," Mycroft said, glancing around Q-branch at all the other exhausted workers. "I do believe you've been on your feet for quite some time, R."

Q inclined his head. "Very nice to have met you, Mr. Holmes." He nodded respectfully to M. "Ma'am."

When the two were completely gone, Q collapsed back into his chair and ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow breath.  _Well then,_ he thought, _so_ _that's the famous Mycroft Holmes._

The hacker sat for a moment, mulling over the interaction. He didn't seem too bad, though Q knew better than most how looks could be deceiving. Behind that polite smile and three-piece suit was a man who ordered deaths and torture with barely a flick of his fingers, a man who could start a war with barely a word to anyone else. He was powerful to the core.

Q had always had a thing for powerful, deadly people.

With a smirk, the hacker sent off a brief text to Jim.  _Met the Ice Man. Feels even more powerful in person._

Q had just lied down on the couch in his office when Jim's reply came in:  _Kinky ;)_

Q laughed and rolled his eyes, and then let himself pass out, knowing he'd completed a job well done.

* * *

In the next two months Q saw Mycroft Holmes six more times, and it was making Q paranoid.

The first was two weeks after the initial meeting, when Q was delivering a prototype to Tanner and found him in the cafeteria, not sitting or eating but chatting with the elder Holmes brother. Q had given Tanner the package and politely talked with the two men; Q had always enjoyed Tanner's straightforward attitude and in that meeting he found that Mycroft Holmes had quite the delightful sense of dry humor.

The second meeting was about a week later, when Q was running an errand for Boothroyd over to MI5. The man was getting on in years and Q was only twenty-six, which apparently meant that running higher-ranking errands was now his job. Q had quite literally run into Mycroft Holmes when the hacker was leaving MI5, and had engaged in a conversation about the pros and cons of systematic desensitization versus flooding. Q had absolutely no idea how the topic had come up, but the debate had been quick-witted and the hacker had been pleased to have a discussion with someoneother than his brotherwho could easily keep up with him.

The third was when another mission went up shit's creek and Q was in M's office with 009 debriefing. When they left the office Mycroft had been sitting outside making polite conversation with M's secretary. Apparently he had a meeting with M, but he invited Q to sitciting that the meeting was unimportant and could waitand they talked for about ten minutes about nothing in particular but was pleasant nonetheless.

The next two meetings were when Mycroft stopped by Q-branch (both times to discuss something with Boothroyd) and ended up spending an hour each time after those meetings sitting with Q and asking actually intelligent questions about the things the hacker was working on. As pointed out many times by Jim, Q tended to ramble when he got to talking about coding, but Mycroft never seemed to get bored with what he had to say.

The last one was at a coffee stand outside about three blocks from Q's apartment. He couldn't find his wallet but was in desperate need of a caffeine fix when Mycroft Holmes showed up at his side and paid for the coffee without a word. They'd walked through the park after that and talked about so many things Q could barely remember each individual topic, only an overall happy feeling.

All of this added up to Q being very,  _very_ nervous. So, of course, he brought it up to Jim.

"I think Mycroft Holmes is suspicious of me," Q said one evening over Chinese take-out.

Jim looked up sharply from the game on his phone. "Why do you say that?" he asked, voice low.

Q poked at his beef lo mein thoughtfully. "Since I met him two months ago I've seen him six times, when I'd  _never_ met him in person before. It feels deliberate, and it's concerning."

"What were these meetings like?" Jim asked, putting his phone and dumplings down.

So, Q summed up the six interactions, from the meeting in the cafeteria to the showing up at a random coffee stand. When he was done, Jim blinked at him, squinted as if trying to see if Q was playing a joke, and then burst out laughing.

"What?" Q snapped defensively. What was he missing?

Jim didn't stop laughing for a while, to Q's irritation, so after a little bit the younger Moriarty punched the elder on the shoulderhard enough to have his attention but not hard enough to do any damageand Jim forced himself to contain his laughter after that.

"Oh, my darling baby brother," Jim cooed, still grinning. Q narrowed his eyes. "Mycroft Holmes isn't stalking you because he's  _suspicious_ of you! He's stalking you because he _likes_ you!"

Q blinked at him, not understanding. Then, when it clicked, Q sputtered. "You're insane!" he squeaked. Mycroft Holmes most certainly did not have  _feelings_ for Q! That was ridiculous! He was the Ice Man, the British Government; he didn't really feel things the way others did. He didn't have _crushes,_ and certainly not on skinny, lanky coders from the boffin department!

But Jim just nodded eagerly, still grinning and looking incredibly amused. "Oh my  _god_ he  _does!_ Oh,  _Q,_ baby brother, you are  _beauteous!_ This is so wonderfulwe have the Ice Man's heart in our hands! This'll definitely come in handy; being found out is always a possibility, and if the man swinging the axe is in a  _relationship_ with you he'll have no choice but to hesitate! Honestly, not even the Ice Man could easily sentence the person he's fucking to something terrible."

Q's chest felt tight and he went very still, his face perfectly blank. "You want me to begin a romantic and sexual long-term relationship with Holmes to give us an edge?" he asked evenly, and waited for Jim's brain to catch up with his mouth.

Thankfully, it didn't take too long.

"Oh yes, it'll give us an _immense_ edge. And it could still help even if you _aren't_ exposed; I could fake some kind of hostage situation to make him do what we want-" then he froze, his jaw dropping open in horror and his eyes going wide. "Fuck, Jamie,  _no,_ I'm so sorry, I didn't even-" he swallowed. Jim Moriarty didn't  _do_ sorry. He never regretted his actions, and Q never expected him too. But this was different, and they both knew it. "Ignore everything I just suggested.  _Fuck."_ He ran an agitated hand through his hair.

Q rolled his neck and his shoulders, trying to release some tension and throw off the ghost of violent hands. Jim pushed himself to his feet and paced in quick, restless circles, muttering  _Fuck_ and  _Shit_ and _I'm sorry_ under his breath. His gaze occasionally darted over to Q, apologetic and deep and antsy, and then away again.

A long time ago, when Q was five and Jim was eight, Q had walked in on their father beating The Older James and briefly caught his brother's pleading gaze. He'd acted before thinking it through, a rarity for The Younger James, stalking forward and kicking their father in the balls with all his miniscule, five-year-old strength. Their father's anger had turned to his younger son in an instant.

The Younger James had resented his elder brother for the rest of the day, even though it had been 100% the younger's choice. He'd resented himself, too, for doing something so stupid simply because he brother hadfor only a  _single moment_ looked to him with a wish.

In their room that night, the elder had looked at the younger with grave eyes and a serious expression and told him, _"One day you will do things for me that you hate. That is what it means to be my family."_

Even at only five years old, Q had known that Jim was not wrong, not even slightly. He was far too loyal to his older brother to deny him anything that would make him happier, that would make his life easier. That day's events had proven it to both brothers.

"Ok," Q whispered, causing Jim to freeze in his aggressive pacing. He could feel his brother staring at him incredulously but he didn't give the elder Moriarty time to say anything, simply getting up from the couch and entering his room, closing the door behind him.

Three days later, when Q ran into Mycroft Holmes again, the hacker asked the government official to dinner. Mycroft had gaped at him for a moment  _(it would've been endearing if Q hadn't feel so nauseous)_ before collecting himself and agreeing with a sweet smile pulling at his lips.

* * *

Mycroft picked him up for their first date, and their second, and their third. They had dinner at a classy, simple restaurant; they went to see a play; they got lunch and strolled through the park. And Q enjoyed himself each time, because Mycroft was intelligent and funny and not hard to get along with once you pushed past the stuffy exterior, then past the socially awkward layer beneath.

At the end of the third date Q was practically vibrating with nerves, but Mycroft didn't invite himself in, simply leaning in for their first kiss.

It was soft, and slow, and gentle, and actually really nice. They both smiled when they pulled apart and Mycroft left peacefully, not pressing or asking for more. Q went inside his flat, stood there feeling content for a moment, and then promptly had a panic attack.

He did  _not_ tell Jim about the reaction.

On the forth date Mycroft asked for his name. Q pointed out with a teasing smile that he was pretty sure Mycroft had read his MI6 file and therefore knew his  _(not)_ real name, to which Mycroft blushed and didn't dispute the charge. But the official then said, "There's a difference between reading a name on a page and having it told to you. There's a certain weight in that, I think."

Q had stared at him for a long moment, marveling, and then smiled softly and told him  _Oliver James_ because that was all he could give. Then, in a moment of (probably stupid) need, Q told him that he liked to go by his last name, though, because it connected him to his family. Mycroft didn't asked why that was important, just nodded and looked pleased, and for the first time in a long time Q was called by the name he was born with.

The fifth date came, and then the sixth. Q found himself very much enjoying the time he spent with Mycroft, looking forward to their dates or encounters in MI6 or calls or the rare text message, since for some reason Mycroft detested texting when he could talk instead. He was old-fashioned that way. Q thought it was charming, even as he always argued on the side of technological advancement.

The seventh date occurred in Mycroft's home. They ate a meal Mycroft had made himselfthe man, apparently, could  _cook_ and watched a spy movie that they both spent the entire time mocking and criticizing for lack of accuracy.

Even as he had a great time, part of Q was anxious, waiting for the turn in the evening. They'd been dating for about a month, they were at his home, he'd made them a meal...all this pointed to it being time for sex. If Q wasn't so messed up in the head he'd probably be all for it. But he was, and so he spent a good amount of the evening psyching himself up for it to happen.

After the movie ended, Mycroft turned to look at him, examined him, then looked away. When he eventually spoke, his tone was self-conscious and trying to hide it. "Why are you with me, James?"

Q frowned at him, confused, and then felt a wave of pity for the elder man when he understood. Q wouldn't lie and say that Mycroft was the most attractive man in the world, but he wasn't _un_ attractive, either. And he was brilliant, and  _clever,_ and funny, and endearingly awkward. It was too bad that he knew he'd betray Mycroft in an instant for Jimbecause, very much against his wishes, Q found himself  _actually_ liking the man.

Q smiled softly and leaned towards the older man, placing a gentle, slow kiss on his lips. When he pulled away he said exactly what he'd just been thinking. "I'm with you, Mycroft, because you are brilliant, and  _clever,_ and funny, and I find all of your quirks incredibly charming and endearing. I'm with you because you are one of only two people in the world I've ever had actually stimulating conversations with. I'm with you because  _being_ with you makes me  _happy."_

Mycroft looked at him very intensely, searching for any hint of a lie, but just because Q left out the part about him initiating this because of  _Jim_ didn't mean he'd lied in what he'd just said. Mycroft was incredible at reading peoplehe seemed to surpass Jim, sometimes, which was amazingso eventually he blinked, looking stunned, and then kissed Q deeply as if trying to convey how much that meant.

The hacker felt another flare of pity. Mycroft deserved someone who would love him 100% from the bottom of their heart, someone who wouldn't put a bullet in his head if their brother asked them to, someone who didn't have ulterior motives. Q hated that he'd have to betray Mycroft one day, because it would crush whatever bit of self-worth he'd helped to build in the older man during their time together.

So Q kissed Mycroft back just as deeply, wanting him to feeleven if it was only for a brief timelike he was truly cared for. Q ignored his pounding heart, ignored the way his chest tightened in anxiety as the kiss continued and Mycroft held him close. And when Mycroft stood up with a vulnerable, questioning look, Q took his hand and followed him to his bedroom.

As Mycroft slowly undid the hacker's shirt's buttons, Q focused on how gentle he was, how  _soft,_ because that was the strongest difference between the taller man and the twenty-three people who had abused him when he was fifteen. They had not been anything  _close_ to resembling  _kind,_ and Mycroft was very far from a cruel man. So Q focused on the gentle trail of his hands, the soft press of his kisses, the slow walk backwards to the bed.

Q helped Mycroft out of his vest as they sat on the bed, and then began working on the older man's shirt buttons. His hands were starting to shake and he kissed Mycroft more passionately to cover it up. Slowly, still just as gentle as before, Mycroft laid him back, bracing himself over the hacker. Mycroft's arousal, starting to tent his pants, brushed over Q's clothed thigh and then pressed against his own dick, rubbing them together.

The hacker shuddered, his breathing stuttering in his throat. Mycroft kissed his neck, gentle and loving, and then pulled his button-down off the rest of the way off before doing the same with his own, leaving them both in their undershirts. One of Mycroft's hands went to Q's pants, undoing the belt buckle and pulling down the zipper. Q squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away as if giving Mycroft better access to his neck but truly just trying to hide his reaction.

But then

Mycroft stopped.

The government official pulled back slightly, not going far but no longer doing anything. Q could still feel his dick, rock hard and pressing against him. He shuddered again. "James?" Mycroft asked, deeply concerned.

Q took a few deep breaths, trying to gain control of himself, but his breathing quickly sped up and he could feel the ghost of violent hands grabbing at him. He gasped for air and Mycroft instantly got off of him, moving to the side and sitting up. That made some of the panic abate, and Q fought to pull himself together.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Q babbled. "I want to, with you, but II, I'm sorry, I'm so s-sorry-"

"James," Mycroft said, firm but very far from unkind. "Everything's alright. We're alright,  _you're_ alright. Just focus on breathing, and then tell me what's wrong."

It took Q an embarrassingly long amount of time to calm down, and when he'd managed to deepen his breathing and slow his heartrate he pushed himself into a seated position. He couldn't bring himself to look at Mycroft, far too ashamed and embarrassed. Then it occurred to himhow was he supposed to face Jim? This shouldn't've been a hard task. But he was so fucking  _messed up-_

He had to calm himself down again, and he hated himself for it. It had been  _years_ since he'd had a panic attack, and now he'd had two within a couple weeks.

Mycroft waited another minute, making sure Q was actually ok, and then asked, "Will you tell me what's wrong?" Q remained silent. "I can't understand if you don't tell me. I can't help."

Well, Q had already completely fucked it up. Explaining by telling Mycroft what had happened to him couldn't destroy it any further.

"When I was fifteen," Q began quietly, still unable to look at his partner, "I got kidnapped. I'd...I'd managed to piss of this mafia leader somehow, and so he and his men took me. And they were not..." he bit his lip. "They didn't care that I was a kid. They tortured me, and they...they raped me. I was with them for two weeks before I was rescued. Since then I've really struggled with prolonged physical contact and with...intimacy. I've tried to have sex a couple times since then to try to fix myself but I always ended up panicking.

"So that's why I just..." he waved a hand through the air. "Spazzed out, I suppose. I'm sorry for leading you on, but I guess I was hoping that since I really care about you and you care about me that it would be easier. I'm sorry, Mycroft. I can understand if you-"

"Don't finish that sentence," Mycroft said in that same firm but kind voice. "You do not need to apologize for the trauma you've experienced to _anyone,_ especially not to me. I am _not_ angry at you in the slightest, and I do not blame you." He paused, then said, "Just now you simultaneously acknowledged that I care about you and then you acted like you expected me to up and leave because you don't want to have sex. I want to make it  _very_ clear to you that-" he sighed gently. "James, please look at me."

After a few tense moments, Q slowly rose his head, meeting Mycroft's blue eyes through his fringe. The red-haired man smiled thankfully. "James, I want you to understand me when I say that I care about  _you,_ and under no circumstance is that going to cease simply because sex isn't on the table. You know I'm far more about the mind, anyway."

Q looked at him in awe, marveling at the fact that the other man was being  _honest._ And in that moment Q actually hated his brother, because Mycroft Holmes was a good man and didn't deserve to have his heart played with in this way.

_One day you will do things for me that you hate. That is what it means to be my family._

Then Q began to do something he hadn't done since he was fifteen years old. He began to cry. Relief and fear, love and hate, all of it welling up in his cold, dark little heart and spilling over.

Mycroft reached over hesitantly and Q took his hand, squeezing it like a lifeline. Mycroft shifted into a more comfortable position and they stayed just like that, leaning against the headboard, hands clasped between them, until they both drifted to sleep.

* * *

When he first woke up, Q went into the bathroom and puked up the contents of his stomach.

He was disgusted with himself. Not because of the vomit, but because of everything that had happened the night before. He'd had a breakdown. _Him,_ the person who looked at lives as if they were  _nothing,_ who would shoot a child if it meant fulfilling his needs, who was working as a double agent for the largest criminal organization in existence. He was James Moriarty, a destroyer, cold and calculating, and he'd had a fucking  _mental breakdown_ because of  _sex._

How pathetic was that?

Q stayed leaning over the toilet for a while, trying to come up with some way to explain this shameful event to his brother. His brilliant brother who let trauma slide off like it was nothing. Who had given Q everything and always taken care of him, and Q couldn't even seal the bond with Mycroft with sex.

Forcing himself to stop wallowing in self-pityhe was _James Moriarty_ and he did not _pity_ himself, he was _far_ too good for thatQ got up and re-entered the bedroom, intent on finding his clothes and heading to work to get on with his life.

Mycroft was awake, sitting up in bed and reading a paperback book. He didn't look up but he said, "I called Anthea and told her to cancel my meetings for the day and only forward things to me that require my immediate attention. I also called Major Boothroydyou've come down with food poisoning, I'm afraid, and there's no way for you to make it in. He offers his sympathies."

Then Mycroft gently patted the bed next to him and continued to read.

After staring dumbly at him for a moment, Q walked over and climbed back onto the older man's big bed, laying on his side and facing him. As Q examined him, Mycroft continued to read his book, which Q appreciated; he needed a moment to watch. And what he saw...no resentment, no signs that he'd been lying last night about being alright with not having all of Q.

Q let out a quiet breath and felt himself slowly relax. He saw a small smile tug at the corners of Mycroft's mouth.

The two spent the entire day not leaving Mycroft's home. They read in bed and watched more spy movies on the couch and ordered Italian food when they got hungry. They had quiet conversations about whatever topics caught their fancy, and it was very obvious to Q that Mycroft was avoiding subjects even closely related to sex or kidnappings. It was a little annoying to be treated with kid gloves, but Q let it be because Mycroft wasn't being condescending about it.

Around 4pm, when they were in the middle of some movie about a spy with memory problems, Q slowly inched closer to Mycroft until they were lightly pressed together, shoulder to knee. He could feel Mycroft turn to look at him but Q kept his gaze firmly fixed on the screen, hopingbut not expectingthat Mycroft wouldn't bring it up.

"James," Mycroft said quietly, as expected. The man paused the movie.

"This is alright," Q told him. "I mean-" he cleared his throat. "I mean usually not, and, um, probably not for  _long,_ but you..." he looked away, clenching his jaw. "Justthis is alright, ok?"

"Ok," Mycroft murmured. He didn't push play on the movie, though, and for a moment Q was afraid the older man was going to ask for more information about what had happened to him, but instead Mycroft asked, "Will you tell me about your family?"

Q looked up at him in  _(relief)_ surprise, and then smiled. "Another thing I believe you read in my file."

Mycroft smiled back at him, probably just as relieved to have them moving past a subject that made Q tense as a live wire, and softly retorted, "Another thing that means more coming from the source."

The hacker settled back into the couch, pulling up his legs and curling them underneath him but still staying pressed against Mycroft's side. The older man extended one arm across the back of the couch so Q tilted his head back, resting against his partner's limb.

"Not much to tell," he mused. "My mum and dad died when I was thirteencar accident. I didn't have any other family and I didn't want to enter the foster care system, so instead I embarked out on my own and began my wonderful career as a freelance hacker," he said with a teasingly boastful voice. Mycroft aborted rolling his eyes but late enough to let Q see the exasperation. Q smiled.

"What were your parents like?" Mycroft asked. He lifted his hand and brushed his fingers soothingly through Q's hair. The hacker hummed in pleasure.

Q shrugged and debated what he wanted to say. He decided to stick close to the truth, because there wasn't any need to change details. "My mum was alright. She wasn't exactly  _affectionate,_ but she fixed us lunches and made sure we were dressed appropriately for the weather, so she wasn't too bad. My dad..." he frowned and shook his head. "He was a mean guy. Liked using his fists instead of his words with his kids. A drunk, too, which made him even meaner."

Mycroft hummed in acknowledgment. Then he said, "Kids, as in multiple?"

Q didn't react.  _Shit._ That's what he got for becoming too comfortable with someone other than Jim; a stupid fucking slip of the tongue. _'_ _Fixed_ us _lunches'._ He had to come up with something and _fast._

The hacker nodded and looked down at his hands. "I have a brother," he said quietly.

He could feel Mycroft looking at him. "That wasn't..." he trailed off.

Q just nodded. "Wasn't in my file, I know." He pursed his lips, squinting away. "I knew that someday my less-than-legal job would catch up with me, and I didn't want him dragged into it, so I, well," he laughed a little, a bitter smile on his lips. "I erased all records of him, gave him a brand new identity and told him to make a life for himself. Haven't seen or heard from him since. Haven't tried to track him down, either."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, mulling it over. "Younger?"

Q shook his head. "A few years older, but he was..." an amused (genuine) smile flashed across Q's face. "He was far more _emotional_ than I've ever been." He gave Mycroft a side-long look and dryly said, "My breakdown last night notwithstanding."

The older man shook his head at Q, a fond, gentle smile on his face. "Don't worry, James; you are not someone I will ever accuse of being _emotional."_ He said it like it was a compliment, which made Q smile and laugh. "Do you ever feel the urge to reach out and find him?"

Q shrugged.  _Don't need to find him,_ he thought wryly,  _he pops up all over the place._ "Sometimes. But I gave him the tools to build a life and get away from me for a reason. If he's ever in trouble he has a way to reach out, and in the meantime I figure he's fine and I'm content to let it be."

"What's his real name?"

The hacker thought back and remembered his mother's maiden name. "Sullivan," Q told his partner. "Sullivan James."

And then, after being prompted, Mycroft told Q about  _his_ family, though Q knew the Holmes history front to back. Mycroft talked about his genius mother and his kind father and then all about his aggravating little brother Sherlock. Q enjoyed the family stories Mycroft shared and knew that he'd have to regale them to Jim later, because his elder brother would absolutely love anything from Sherlock's childhood.

For dinner they ate their leftover Italian food and then enjoyed a nightcap or two. When it came time for bed they made their way back to Mycroft's room and when the older man went to put his pajamas on Q stopped him, biting his lip hesitantly and not-quite meeting Mycroft's questioning gaze.

"I, um." He cleared his throat and stood straighter, staring past his partner's shoulder. "I'd like to...show you something, and I think it might be easier if you weren't completely dressed."

Mycroft didn't protest, just removed his shirt and pants and sat on the bed in just his underwear. He shifted, and Q realized that  _he_ was self-conscious, which really shouldn't have surprised Q, considering all the signs he'd seen pointing to low self-esteem.

Q smiled softly and walked forward, pressing a soft, loving kiss to the older man's lips and pushing his own anxieties down. "You're beautiful, love," he said quietly, "and I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

"I believe that's the line I'm supposed to be saying to you," Mycroft replied, his voice a little shaky.

Licking his lips nervously Q looked away, his anxiety returning. But he'd already made up his mind, so he took a step back and undid the buttons of his shirt, pulling it off, and then he shimmied out of his pants. He reached for the hem of his undershirt and hesitated, his breath catching.

No one had seen his scars except for Jim and the doctor Jim had hired back then. The doctor had worked quickly and thoroughly, making sure each and every one of Q's wounds were treated, gave them prescriptions for the painkillers and antibiotics Q needed to take, and then Jim had shot the man in the head to keep the secrets of Q's body, well, _secret._

In one quick motion Q yanked his t-shirt off and then shoved down his underwear before he lost his nerve.

The hacker could feel Mycroft looking at him, eyes tracking all of the violent scars that marred Q's pale body, but Q stared at the distant floor, unable to meet his partner's gaze.

Slowly, making sure his every move was telegraphed, Mycroft slid forward and reached for Q's hand, which the hacker accepted.

"This one," Q murmured, pointing to a long, jagged scar across his abdomen, "happened when Mikael tried his hand at torture. He'd never done it before and he had no idea how to really use a knife; I was his guinea pig. It didn't bleed a lot, but he was sloppy and it didn't receive attention for a while, so it turned out like this.

"These," Q continued, turning slightly so Mycroft could see his back; the older man let out a slow, calming breath. "Are from various whips. Anatoli liked using them quite a lot and came to see me often because of it."

Q turned back around and swallowed down the lump in his throat. He gestured to the small, circular wounds along his arms. "These areobviouslyfrom having cigarettes put out on my skin. All of them smoked, but Viktor seemed to like watching my skin smolder the most. He was also the one who gave me the electrical burns along my chest, stomach, and thighs." He gestured downward.

His hands started to shake. "And this one-"

"James," Mycroft said softly. "You don't have to-"

"Oh, yea," Q said with a cracked laugh. "You can probably deduce what all of these are from, can't you? I don't really need to explain them, you can just-"

"James," Mycroft said again. He squeezed Q's hand. "You don't have to share these at  _all,_ not until you're ready. This can all follow your own pace-" suddenly he cut off, which made Q look at him, and then he cringed, wishing he hadn't looked at all.

Mycroft's gaze was locked onto Q's left hip, the place where the worst wound was. On his first day in captivity all of the men had been very excited and had wanted to claim him as _theirs,_ so they'd taken a branding iron to his skin and left their mafia's symbol permanently on his hip. It was ugly and vile and the biggest reminder of what he'd gone through.

"They branded you," Mycroft said in a deceptively calm voice, his eyes not leaving the symbol. Q cringed again. "I am going to  _murder them,"_ Mycroft said in a rush, and when Q looked back to him, the older man's eyes were filled with cold fury. "All of this, everything they did to you-" a sneer took over his face. "I will  _kill them all."_

And then, surprising Mycroft, Q grinned and leaned forward, capturing his lips in a deep, loving kiss.

"They're already all dead, so I'm afraid you're too late for that, but the sentiment is...perfect." He stroked a thumb over Mycroft's cheek and pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, and then without another word he climbed into bed and let himself fall asleep holding the hand of someone he might've actually been falling for, and falling hard.


	3. The Younger Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the second Holmes arrives, confrontations and deductions take place, and somebody gets kidnapped.

Early the next morning Q was woken up by an incessant banging on Mycroft's front door.

Q groaned, pushing his face harder into the pillow, but he was probably supposed to be awake soon for work anyway, so he sat up and blearily reached for his glasses. Next to him Mycroft stirred but Q shushed him, pressing a soft kiss to his partner's forehead.

"It's alright, go back to sleep," Q whispered soothingly. "I've got it, it's probably nothing. Go back to sleep."

He kissed the other man's forehead again and then slid out of bed. He squinted in the dark and spotted his underwear, pulling it on as he stumbled towards the bedroom door. As he passed Mycroft's closet he grabbed the dressing gown he saw hanging there and wrapped it around himself. It was a little long so Q used most of his limited awareness to focus on not tripping over the ends.

The pounding started even more vigorously when Q got into the living room and he rushed towards the door, wanting to stop whoever it was before they completely woke Mycroft up.

"Alright, alright, fuck I'm coming, Jesus," Q grumbled, undoing the lock and then swinging the door open. "Yes?" he snapped, but then his breath caught in his throat because standing there on the doorstep was Sherlock Fucking Holmes.

The consulting detective's expression was one of pure shock, gobsmacked as he looked at Q standing there with his messed-up bedhead and wearing a robe that was obviously not his. Q blinked. The detective blinked back.

That's when Q realized that he wasn't actually supposed to know Sherlock Holmes, so he squinted at the man and asked, "Can I help you?"

His words seemed to startle Sherlock out of whatever frozen haze he'd just been in, because the tall man  _(Fuck_ were the Holmes men tall) pushed into the room past Qignoring the hacker's indignant  _hey!_ and then twirled around, examining Q with an intense, invasive gaze. He looked like Christmas had just come early.

"You can't just barge into someone else's home-!" Q began to object, raising his chin indignantly.

"I'm Sherlock, Mycroft's brother," the detective cut in smoothly, eyes alight. "And  _you_ are what he was trying to hide from me. Oh this is too good. How old  _are_ you? Twenty-four?"

Q scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. "Twenty-six. Now, brother or not, I do not believe you've been  _invited,_ and-"

"Oh, I'm never invited," Sherlock said, waving dismissively in a gesture that was so similar to Jim that it took Q a moment to reconnect to the conversation. "But that doesn't matter in the  _slightest._ I expected a lot but I didn't expect  _you-!"_ Sherlock laughed, looking utterly delighted. His eyes scanned up and down Q's body again, not in the slightest bit sexual but still intimate in its intensity.

"What are you talking about?" Q snapped, because there was something he was missing and he absolutely detested not being in the know.

Sherlock smirked. "I haven't seen my brother in just about a month. He usually drops by every couple weeks, but he's been strangely absent, and anything he would normally bother me about in person he just emailed. All of that meant that there was something he knew I'd deduce on his person and he didn't want me to know it. I had a lot of theories, but a _boyfriend_ was most certainly _not_ what I expected."

Before Q could say anything in response, Sherlock was still talking. "Where  _is_ my brother, anyway? I think I'd absolutely  _love_ to talk to him about his twink-"

"Excuse you," Q said sharply, having had just about enough of being talked down to. "I'll give you ten seconds to apologize for that comment before things get very challenging for you."

Sherlock squinted at him, leaning in slightly, then blinked and said, "Oh? _Oh!_ No, not some twink, you're MI5no, MI- _six._ Figures, where else is Mycroft going to find a date? And high-ranking, aren't you? Which means genius, given that fact that you're so young. Isn't. That. _Interesting."_

Q narrowed his eyes. "Well, not that this conversation hasn't been  _fun,_  Sherlock, but I do believe it's time for you to go. Mycroft will give you a call, I'm sure."

But the detective completely ignored him, looking around. "No need to show me the way to the bedroom, I've snuck in before-"

A wave of protectiveness over Mycroft washed over Q, and he stalked forward, putting himself in the younger Holmes' path. Mycroft was insecure enough about his body and Q had a feeling that Sherlock had a mean streak when it came to teasing his brother. Q was not about to let him enter Mycroft's bedroom and find him lying down in just his underwear.

"If you're insistent on seeing him then you can  _wait here,"_ Q snapped. "I'll get him."

Sherlock blinked, surprised at having been stopped, and then wrinkled his nose.  _"Ew,_ yea no, I don't want to see what Mycroft looks like post-sex."

His deduction wasn't accurate, but if it kept him from storming into Mycroft's bedroom, Q was going to let it slide.

"Mycroft," Q said when he was standing next to the older man's side of the bed. He gently shook his partner, and Mycroft turned to look at him, blinking rapidly to wake himself up. "Your brother is here."

Mycroft shot into a seated position. He stared at Q. "Oh."

Satisfied that the man was fully awake, Q began shuffling around, finding his clothes and quickly getting dressed. "Yes,  _oh._ And sometime very soon the two of us are going to discuss why you felt the need to  _literally avoid your brother for a month_  just to keep him from learning about me."

The older man at least had the decency to wince, and he began getting dressed as well, moving quickly and efficiently to pull on his immaculate three-piece suit. He cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I  _do_ have a rather good reason for that." Q just made a sound of acknowledgment and roughly pulled his sweater on. Mycroft grabbed his hand and Q looked up, surprised. Mycroft's expression was gentle. "James, I'd like to make it clear right now that my reasoning  _wasn't_ that I'm ashamed of you, because I am  _very_ far from ashamed to be your partner."

Q squinted at him, testing the genuineness of that statement, and then smirked at him. "Damn right you're not ashamed. I'm a  _catch._ A bona-fide  _catch."_

Mycroft laughed under his breath and then kissed Q. When he pulled back he sighed, cupping the younger man's cheek. "This is going to be a fun conversation. Are you ready?"

The hacker drew away, shaking his head with an amused smile. "Oh no, I'm not sticking around for this. It's early and your brother is a  _lot_ and I'd rather not listen to him snipe about me. So, no." He gave Mycroft a quick peck. "Call me later." Then he turned and strode from the room.

Sherlock looked at him when he appeared but Q sent him a sharp look to stop him from saying anything. "Pleasure to meet you," he said breezily, and slid out the door before the younger Holmes could speak.

* * *

Q stopped by his apartment to shower and change before heading to work. After taking care of a few small tasks that he hadn't completed the day before, the hacker stared down at his phone, contemplating what he wanted to say in his text to Jim.

 _Hello, brother. So I broke down like a child and didn't seal the deal with Mycroft. I also met Sherlock, who is a right bastard_ _. Oh, and then there's the part where I think I'm actually falling for Mycroft, which is just_ swell. _Lots of love, Q._

He chuckled bitterly under his breath and shook his head as if that could clear the negative thoughts. He rubbed a tired hand over his face and contemplated the situation. The lack of sex hadn't seemed to have impacted Mycroft's opinion of him, but any spy could tell you that there was no better way to solidify a bond with a mark than to sleep with them. That kind of immediate intimacy was hard to replicate.

In the end, he decided that Jim didn't  _really_ need to know about the breakdown, and Q didn't have to share it unless Jim specifically asked about sex (which he would, Q  _knew_ he would, but a hacker could dream). So he went with simplicity.  _Relationship with the elder Holmes going well. Met Sherlock, too. He's something else, but I can see the similarities between us you pointed out._

The response came less than thirty seconds later.  _How interesting!! See you tonight - I'll bring Japanese!_

Q smiled down at the response and shook his head fondly. For all his anxieties in relation to his brother lately, Q still loved him more than anyone in the world.

Given that Sherlock _hadn't,_ in fact, apologized for the _twink_ commentand Q was a man of his word when it came to threats he handed outthe hacker did what he did best: he hacked into the younger Holmes' cellphone account and erased it from the provider's system so that Sherlock no longer actually had a phone. Next he did the same with Sherlock's cable and internet access. Lastly he sent the detective one last (blocked ID) text message that simply said: _I did say that things would be challenging for you if you didn't apologize. Have fun fixing all of it._

True to his word, Jim showed up at Q's apartment later that night with food from Q's favorite little sushi restaurant. He entered as he knocked on the front door, as was his custom, and made a b-line for the couch where Q was sitting. He dropped the take-out bags on the coffee table in front of them and then turn to face Q giddily.

"Well?" he asked excitedly. "What was the meeting like? What did he say? What did _you_ say? How did you meet him?"

Predictable that Jim would ask about Sherlock first instead of the long mission he'd requested Q complete. So, Q recounted the meeting, starting with Sherlock banging on the door to Q's own departure.

After digesting everything, Jim zeroed in on the fact that Q had been at Mycroft's apartment very early in the morning, which implied certain activities. Q's stomach rolled as he waited for his brother to ask what was on his mind.

"So...You and Mycroft..." Jim trailed off, looking around awkwardly.

For a moment Q let himself feel amused by the fact that Jim Moriarty was uncomfortable with the topic of sex. Jim had  _always_ treated sex more like a game, a  _tool,_ than an act to be respected. He'd always been promiscuous and uncaring of talking in graphic detail even when not socially appropriate. Jim didn't really have a sexualityhe fucked whoever and whenever with whatever parts depending on his mood and what the individual could do for him.

All of that was to say that Jim  _never_ shied away from talking about fucking with  _anyone._ And suddenly he seemed like he'd rather be anywhere else. Q let that make him feel special.

"No," Q admitted, also looking away, which was of  _course_ when Jim looked back at him. "I..." he licked his lips and then pursed then, clenching his fists. "I tried. It moved in that direction, and we went into the bedroom, but he got on top of me and I just..." he shook his head. "I freaked out like a fucking child, Jim. So uh, no, we didn't fuck. Which, of course, I'm sorry for. It should've been a simple task and-"

"Shut the fuck up," Jim hissed. Q cut off, eyes going slightly wide in surprise. Jim got to his feet. He looked furious, and shame and embarrassment flooded through Q.

"I'm sorry, Jim," he said quietly, "I can try-"

"No," Jim said sharply, once again cutting him off. _"Be silent._ I swear to fucking god if you  _apologize_ for reacting to the fact that you were  _raped_ one more time I will cut off the tip of your pinky."

"I-" Q blinked rapidly, eyes still wide. "Wait, what?"

"Do you really have that low an opinion of yourself?" Jim asked incredulously, eyes still filled with fire. "No, wait,  _better_ question: Do you really have that low an opinion of  _me?_ Fuck, Jamie. Were you about to say you can try again? Oh my god I've screwed you up so badly."

Q had no idea what was happening. He'd never seen Jim like this, never  _heard_ him like that. Jim had always been proud of the path the two of them had gone down together, and now he was talking like he'd somehow messed Jamie up instead of the two of them being screwed up together. Plusa low opinion of Jim? That was  _laughable;_ Q thought the _world_ of Jim.

And low opinion of himself? No, Q  _knew_ he was spectacular in many different areas. His ego definitely wasn't as big as Jim's but he was nowhere _near_ having low self-esteem. Q just put his needs below Jim's because why the fuck not? Jim was his _family,_ his _only_ family. Q's loyalty to Jim was unmeasurable. That wasn't a bad thing, and Jim had certainly never seen it as one. If anything, Q's willingness to do whatever was necessary for Jim had always seemed to make his brother delighted.

"No," Q said slowly, honestly, "I don't believe you get to take credit for screwing me up, Jim."

Jim blinked, the hacker having caught him by surprise, and said, "Sorry?"

"Well I know you have a big ego-" Q smiled slightly "-but you can't take credit for how screwed up I am. You can take  _partial_ credit for how codependent I am if you want, but then the reverse is also trueI'm partially responsible for your dependency on  _me._ And the other responsible party for my codependency is  _life,_ Jim, because it's been us-against-the-world since I was  _born._ So don't start wailing to me about how messed up it is that I'm willing to do terrifying stuff for hopes and dreams, Jim, because I've been doing things for you that hurt me since I was old enough to realize that I had that ability."

The room fell silent. Jim was staring at Q, his expressions cycling through many different emotions. Q just leaned back in the couch, feeling far more comfortable and settled than he had in a while. He wondered if Jim was remembering that event so long ago when he'd looked at Q with grave eyes and declared  _One day you will do things for me that you hate. That is what it means to be my family._

Eventually, Jim sighed dramatically and threw himself back down to the couch, tossing his legs across Q's lap and leaning back. "I'd do anything for you too, you know," Jim grumbled, picking up his plate and stabling his sashimi with his chopsticks.

Q smiled and looked away to hide it. "I know, Jim. Now! How'd the theft of the Monet go?"

* * *

Two weeks passed before Q saw Sherlock again, which Q counted as a blessing that simply didn't last long enough.

To the hacker's annoyance, the detective was waiting outside MI6 when Q exited for the day, ready to head home and change before his date with Mycroft (the man was taking him to see some play that he'd looked adorably excited about in his muted way when telling Q about it). But there the younger Holmes was, stopping Q in his tracks.

Q sighed. "Can I help you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Let's grab coffee. I'll buy," Sherlock declared. He said it as if it was a fact and not a request, which Q didn't really appreciate all that much.

"Sorry," Q replied, keeping his tone polite, "but I'm-"

"Yes, yes, you're seeing a show with my brother," Sherlock interrupted impatiently. "But that ghastly play doesn't start for another three hours, it only takes a half an hour max to get there and even with Mycroft's paranoia he won't make the two of you arrive any sooner than a half hour before start time, which means you have two hours until you have to meet him. Mycroft is a workaholic so I doubt he's going to be leaving the office for at _least_ another hour, hour fifteen. You only live about twelve minutes from hereand from the coffee shop a block awayand I doubt you take any time at all to change clothes, which means we have about forty-five minutes before you actually have to get home."

The man didn't pause for breath once during that whole speech.

If Q hadn't been so used Jim going off on deductive spielsand Mycroft quietly announcing things he noticed about peoplethe hacker would probably be a lot more gobsmacked, which was probably what the detective was hoping for; the man definitely liked showing off.

Instead, Q just raised an unimpressed eyebrow and said, "Why did you feel the need to track down where I live?"

Sherlock blinked at him, surprised, and then a smile tugged at his lips. "So. Coffee?"

Q pursed his lips, not really wanting to go sit down with Sherlock fucking Holmes, but honestly this meeting was an eventuality considering how nosy the younger Holmes was. So he sighed and said, "Fine. But the coffee at the place you're referring to is horrendous. I know a better one a street over."

And that was how Qbrother of Jim Moriarty, the man obsessed with the detectiveended up sitting across from Sherlock Holmes himself in a small cafe, nursing a cup of earl grey. He immediately sent off a text to Jim _(Guess who I'm having coffee with?)_ and then put his brother's number on non-alerts so his phone wouldn't ping constantly with the elder Moriarty's messages.

"Well?" Q asked after a while of Sherlock just staring at him and the hacker staring back. "Was there any particular reason you forced this meeting? Or was it just to try to deduce every last detail about me?"

"You are surprisingly hard to read," the detective told him. He said it like it was some great compliment, which Q supposed it waswhen you were as brilliant as the Holmes brothers, struggling to pick up details off of someone must've been impressive to them, if a little frustrating.

"Thank you, I suppose," Q said in amusement. He took a sip of his tea, watching Sherlock over the edge of the cup.

It was funny, seeing the differences in the ways Jim, Mycroft, and Sherlock went about deducing people and revealing what they learned. With Jim, whatever he knew was then redirected to be an attack somehow. Mycroft was similar to that in the way he held back what he noticed until it was useful, but his attacks were subtler and he was far more polite and reserved with everyday people. And Sherlockwell, he didn't have much of a brain-to-mouth filter, and didn't seem to care about his lack of one.

When it came to deductions about people, Q had never been as good as Jim (and certainly not as good as Mycroft), but patterns and codes made _sense_ to Q, so what he was good at with people was seeing what made them tick. He couldn't tell you what they ate for breakfast or if they slept on the couch, but he _could_ tell you a person's motivation in the way they moved and their thought processes in every twitch.

When you looked at people like lines of computer code, they became _vastly_ easier to read.

"I wanted to learn more about you," Sherlock said eventually, breaking the silence that had settled around them.

"Oh?" Q let an amused smile pull at his lips. "And that required a sit down why? Clearly you've researched me, and if you're anything like Mycroft then you can probably tell quite a lot about me just by looking at me, even with the fact that I'm harder to read than most."

"You have been dating my brother for a month and a half," Sherlock said shortly. Q rose an eyebrow, clearly asking _And?_ Sherlock let out a frustrated breath. "Mycroft hasn't dated anyone sincewell, I don't know, he doesn't _date,_ not really. And yet here you are, a month and a half in, and he's calling you his _partner._ So forgive me for being curious."

Q let out a little laugh. "Oh, I see. You're feeling protective. That's sweet."

Sherlock bristled. "I am not _protective_ of that asshole." His tone was slightly defensive. Q resisted laughing outright. "But Mycroft is a very powerful person and not one to be led around by _sentiment._ You are an anomaly. I like figuring out anomalies."

The hacker hummed in acknowledgement. That was something he could sympathize with at least. "Well, tell me what you've noticed, then. I'm sure it's less than you'd like-" he smirked "-but there's _something,_ I'm sure."

The detective narrowed his eyes, as if considering that a challenge, and then took a deep breath.  _Here we go,_ Q thought with amused curiosity.

"You used to have a cat but you gave it away because you weren't home enough to take care of ityou sleep more on the couch in your office than you do in your own bed. You usually only sleep four to five hours a night, more after you've finished a challenging mission and far less when  _on_ a challenging mission. You don't drink or smoke unless the people you're with areyou adapt to the situation. You come from a high-class British family but you detest the pomp and circumstance that comes with that crowd, and yet you'll still attend every fancy party you're invited to. You didn't join MI6 out of duty to Queen and Country; a deal was probably offered.

"And then there's your relationship with my brother. Obviously you met at workMycroft doesn't go anywhere but work, home, and the Diogenes Clubbut Mycroft most _definitely_ isn't one to just fall for a pretty face, so you two met whilst in the middle of something that showed your competence and intellect. Must have made you look cold, too. But you strike me as someone who would be oblivious to another's feelings towards youisolated childhood I betand Mycroft is socially constipated so he wouldn't have told you about it, which means that someone else made you aware of it. And you..."

Sherlock shook his head. "Now this is the part I don't understand."

Q coldly told him, "If the point you're about to try to make is that you don't understand how someone could fall for your brother then this conversation is very, _very_ over."

The detective waved an annoyed hand and rolled his eyes. "No, no, nothing of the sort, calm down. I meant that I don't understand why you initiated a relationship with him because out of everything I've seen of you, you are...perfectly content not making any true connections with people. You put on a façade and you let everyone around you think they know you because in your experience that is the absolute best way to get through life. And yet you asked out my brother, beginning a serious relationship with him. It doesn't add up."

_Well, my own brother thinks owning the Ice Man's heart will be a serious advantage in the future whenever the games begin, and I'll do absolutely anything for Jim, even destroy a perfectly good man._

Q contained a mocking laugh. He couldn't exactly say that, could he? So he came up with something else.

"You're right, I had an isolated childhood," Q began. "My parents died when I was thirteen, and they'd never exactly been the loving sort. I took care of myself. And when you're so much smarter than everyone elseeven the adults you meetit tends to make you want to stay away from people even more."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, his eyes fixed on Q's face, intently listening to everything he said. "I was on my own, and there was never anyone I could have an actually intelligent conversation with. But then your brother showed up, running a country and hiding behind the façade of a low-level employee. And he seemed to see me, like people hadn't before. A five minute conversation with Mycroft was more stimulating than an entire _year's_ worth with other people.

"We just  _fit,_ Sherlock. He makes sense to me, and for once in my life I make sense to someone else. So when someone at MI6 jokingly said that Mycroft probably liked me since he was staying to talk with me when he didn't have to, I chose to take a chance and not be alone anymore. Maybe that's disgustingly sentimental, but I think if you ever meet someone and just  _fit_ with them, you'll be talking the exact same way."

Sherlock frowned at Q and leaned back, still staring. "Well," he said eventually, and then stopped. Stared some more. Q stared back. "Ech, alright."

Q rose his eyebrows. "Alright what?"

The detective scowled and stood up, straightening his suit. "Whatever. I'll see you, I suppose."

The hacker blinked at Sherlock and then let out a startled laugh. "Was that your way of giving your blessing?"

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "Shut up." Then, with a dramatic twirl, he pulled his coat back on and strode from the coffee shop.

* * *

Three months later, Q got kidnapped.

They grabbed him as he was leaving his apartment building to pick up some dinner and head over to Jim's place. It was a professional job, that was clear from the startthe men skillfully avoided showing their faces to the many security cameras around Q's building, they jumped on him as soon as he was out the door and had him in a secure hold before he could so much as startle. They gagged him and pulled a hood over his head while simultaneously forcing him into their waiting van.

If Q hadn't been so pissed, he would've be impressed. These men had kidnapped the second-in-command of Q branch in under thirty seconds.

They drove around for a while, making unnecessary turn after unnecessary turn, probably hoping to confuse Q's senses and make him lose track of where they were headed. It didn't _work,_ of coursethe hacker was far too good for thatbut they tried, at least. It was their first amateur move, though, and gave Q hope that they'd have a few more.

After a long while they stopped, and Q placed them at about three hours outside of London in a less populated area. They were hoping to not be noticed, which meant their plan for Q was long-term. Or their plan included making Q scream quite a bit. He tried to be optimistic and believe it was the former.

The men led him through a series of long hallways and Q did his best not to trip, considering the fact that he couldn't actually see anything. At one point they walked down a short flight of stairs, walked some more, and then went up another staircase, this one longer. Q kept a mental map of everywhere they went just in case he had an opportunity for escape. After two more turns a door opened and Q was pushed inside a room. It was warm and comfortable, and the seat his guards pushed him into was a large, soft armchair.

There was a moment of tense silence and then one of them men stepped back up next to him and secured one of his wrists with handcuffs to something protruding from the armrest of the chair. Q tugged experimentally on it but it didn't budge. Then, he heard his guards turn and walk away, the door slamming and locking behind them.

Q took a few deep breaths and tried to work out who'd taken him. There were _many_ possible choices; as a higher-ranking official of MI6 he had a fair share of people who would love to get their hands on him. Or it could be a kidnapping related to his work with Jim, someone trying to get control over the powerful criminal by taking his brother. Following that line of thinking it could have to do with _Mycroft,_ since The British Government recently got a serious weak point in the form of Q.

Frankly, there were far too many possibilities and not nearly enough information, so Q let go of trying to figure it out. Eventually someone would come into speak to him and he would hopefully be able to discern some answers to his questions.

Twenty-seven minutes later, a door opened; not the one behind him that he'd come through, but one on the far side of them room. The person was female, going by the sound of the stiletto heels, and walked with the confidence of someone who understood (and loved) the power they wielded. Jim tended to walk something like that, if slightly less feminine.

Q waited, remaining still and keeping his body relaxed. The woman had stopped about five feet away from him and he presumed from the silence that she was watching him. With the gag in his mouth there was no point in trying to say something, so he simply sat and hoped that she wouldn't try that cliché of keeping her captive in the dark and silence in the wish to unbalance them. Q was very far from being new to this game and that would only bore him, not unnerve him.

Thankfully, the woman walked forward and ripped the bag from his head, unhooking the gag a second later, and then took a couple steps back so he could fully see her.

She was absolutely beautiful. Long, thick black hair, tan skin, shining brown eyes, full lips. She wore a long gold dress with a slit up the side (which, ok, a little tacky) and Q could see a dagger strapped to her thigh.

He didn't recognize her, but that didn't matter much. She had the look of somebody who tended to control others from the shadows, which meant she was dangerous.

"Hello," Q said pleasantly. "Can I help you with something? I _do_ have office hours, actually, which might be better. Shall we schedule an appointment?"

The woman smiled slightly, amused, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I can see why he likes you."

Ok, that could mean a lot of things. That comment being about Mycroft seemed to fit the most considering the wording of _'he likes you'_ , but what Q had said wasn't exactly a thing that would connect Mycroft's feelings to him. If anything, what Q had said was _far_ more Jim's style, but her phrasing wouldn't make sense, then. He was Jim's brother, _liking_ wasn't exactly something to be questioned.

"That so?" Q inquired politely, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. "And what _'he'_ might you be talking about then, just so we're on the same page?"

She _slapped_ him. She fucking _slapped_ him.

Q's head whipped to the side but he didn't react other than thatif the woman wanted to actually hurt him, she'd have to try a lot harder than _that._

Slowly, with precise movements, Q turned back to face her, his eyes far sharper now, and saw her glaring at him. "Do not play dumb with me," she hissed. "It will only anger me, _not_ endear yourself."

The woman really thought it should be obvious to him, which meant she didn't know a lot about who Q was, how connected he was. Jim, Mycroft, MI6she only knew about one, and he could narrow it down to one of the first two. But still, her phrasing was odd. He really needed more information.

Might as well play at subservient, play to her superiority. Maybe she'd reveal something.

"You're right, I apologize," Q said quietly, glancing away like he hated having to say sorry but still meant it. In the corner of his eye he saw her smile briefly, satisfied, and he most certainly did  _not_ twitch away when she stroked a delicate hand down his face.

"Oh, dear," the woman replied softly, sounding once again in control of herself. Short temper, but the anger went away just as quickly. Good to know. "Aren't you just _lovely?"_

"He likes lovely things," Q replied in an almost self-deprecating tone.  _Come on,_ he thought furiously,  _give away who you're talking about._

She laughed, loud and joyous, and turned his head back to face her. Her smile was absolutely beautiful, just like the rest of her. "He does indeed," she agreed, laughter still in her voice. "Even more so if they're damaged and  _dark_ lovely things."

Ah, so she was talking about Jim. But...she didn't know they were _brothers._ Q retrained his amusement at the thought of being  _with_ Jim.

"If I may ask; what is the plan here?" the hacker asked. "Am I a hostage? Leverage? A power play?"

The woman rose a shapely eyebrow. "Most would say those are all the same thing."

Q shook his head and tsked. "A hostage is a term used primarily for ransom or to keep someone in line. Leverage is used to control someone's actions, to force them into a higher form of compliance than just money or staying the course. A power play, however...well, that's a whole 'nother ball game."

The woman blinked at him, surprised, and then laughed again. "I should correct myselfJames likes damaged, dark, and _smart_ lovely things."

The hacker smirked. "So this is the forth option then." She sent him a confused look, her amusement fading. "You're not keeping me hidden from Jim for any of the aforementioned reasons. You  _want_ him to come here. This isn't about controlling Jim, this is  _jealousy."_

She slapped him again, but this time Q was ready for it. And it was his turn to laugh.

"Man, Jim must've screwed you over," he said in amusement. "Pun intended, of course."

Once again, she slapped him, but this time with her other hand, which meant her two solid gold and silver rings made the hit actually hurt, and definitely broke the skin. Q sighed and suppressed a grunt of pain.

"Oliver James, I would suggest you  _bite your tongue._ I have men here who aren't big fans of your lover and would  _love_ to get their hands on you."

She meant to beat him up, maybe torture him, Q knew that. But her phrasing made his chest tighten. And for that reason alone, Q was going to be the one to put a bullet between her eyes.

"When is Jim set to arrive?" Q asked instead of deigning to validate her comment with a response. "Seeing as this is going to be a confrontation, I'd like to know how long I'll have to wait until Jim kills all of you."

Q really, really,  _really_ shouldn't provoke the woman, considering she wasn't lying about having many competent men working for her, and she herself wasn't exactly shy about physical harm. But Jim would be there soon and they'd all be dead, plus Q had had a long day and he didn't feel like playing subservient anymore, not now that he knew why he was there.

Predictably, the woman slapped him again, snarling down at him. Q's cheeks were throbbing.

"I have had just about  _enough_ of your smart tongue," she hissed at him. Then she raised her voice, head turning towards the door Q had come through. "Arnesto!" After a moment, a man entered, and Q catalogued every detail. Average height, muscular with broad shoulders, thick black hair, deep set eyes, shoulder holster under his suit jacket.

"Teach our guest some manners," the woman drawled, sending Q a vicious smirk. The hacker sighed internally; it had been a while since he'd been beaten up, even longer since he'd been beaten up for petty reasons.

Arnesto, it turned out, threw a very strong punch and enjoyed wearing brass knuckles when getting out his frustrations on a person. Just like the woman, the thug was clearly coming from a personal perspective in his anger. He was pissed at Jim about something  _(nothing new)_ and was happy to take it out on the criminal's supposed lover.

That thought still made Q want to laugh, so after a punch to the gut that left him breathless, the hacker did laugh. Arnesto punched him much harder across the face for that, but it felt worth it.

Twenty minutes later, Q's head was swimming, his chest was on fire, and Arnesto  _finally_ stopped. Q took a few deep breaths, centering himself, and blinked blearily at the woman, who was daintily perched on a golden chaise (unnecessary opulence, no wonder she liked Jim). Arnesto went over and stood by her shoulder, guarding, and then three other men entered and stood guard the same way. Something was about to happen.

The doors behind Q slammed open. Q smiled.

"Hi, honey, I'm home!" Jim chirped, strolling in. He walked around Q, his eyes flicking over everyone in the room, cataloguing them, and then turned to face the hacker. His expression darkened as he took in the damage Arnesto had caused.

"The one standing next to her," Q informed his brother helpfully, blinking heavily in an attempt to focus his gaze. His British accent was slipping, his longer Dublin syllables sliding in. _Possible concussion,_ he thought. "But just so you know, I call killing her."

Jim smirked down at him, but the smile most definitely didn't reach his eyes. The familiar expression made Q grin, wide and happy, slightly loopy.  _Yes, concussion very likely._

"You got it, Jamie-James," the elder Moriarty trilled. Then he spun around to face the woman, clasping his eyes together and smiling brightly. "Well! It seems we have a situation. Hello again, Evangeline. Not exactly the reunion I was hoping for."

"You weren't hoping for  _any_ reunion, James," the woman replied coolly.

The name finally hit Q, his brain processes going too slowly. Evangeline Marcello was an arms dealer he and Jim had employed briefly a few years back. She'd been a solid supplier but she could be led around far too easily by her emotions, so they'd ended the working relationship. Along with it, Jim had stopped fucking her.

Q couldn't help but crack up. "Fucking hell! That's why I'm here? An upset old mot? You, lady, are not the full shilling."

Jim looked back at him with an expression of pure mirth, while Evangeline seemed suddenly confused. "Brother dear," Jim said in amusement, "your Irish is showing."

Evangeline sucked in a sharp breath. "Brother?" she asked, surprised.

"Oh yea," Q said, tilting his head to clearly keep both Jim and the woman in his sights, "she thinks I'm your lover."

Just as Jim began to laugh, men poured in through the open double doors, decked out with large riffles. Three clean headshots took out the guards just as Jim put a bullet into the gut of Arnesto. Evangeline stood as if to run but Sebastian moved forward, securing her arms behind her with zipties and then shoving her back down to sit.

"Alec," Jim called to one of the men, and Q realized that the Double-Oh was there, too. "Make sure Stomach Wound over there doesn't die just yet; I have a bone to pick with him."

Trevelyan did as instructed, throwing Q a wink as he walked by, to which Q smiled back. "How're you doing, R?"

"Savage," Q drawled in reply. Alec frowned in confusion at the Irish accent and slang but didn't pause, moving on to deal with Arnesto.

Jim crouched down in front of Q and used his lockpick to remove the handcuff. His brother then grabbed his chin and tilted his head from side to side, examining the bruises and cuts across Q's face. "Brass knuckles?" he asked in a dangerous tone.

Q hummed. "Bang on. Stomach, too."

His brother smiled at him, but his eyes were still dark. Arnesto was in for a world of hurt. "I haven't heard you sound like our roots in years."

The hacker chuckled in response. "He made a right bags of my head. Can't remember proper British at the moment. And hey, it's not like you act a hundred percent our _roots_. You're all high-class. We lived just outside the Pale, Jim.  _Slang_ is our middle name."

Jim smiled crookedly. "You sure do have a concussion, brother. Come on; let's get you home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I googled Irish slang terms. Yes, it was lots of fun. No, I don't know if all of it's right (blame google if I'm wrong).
> 
> Mot = Girlfriend (Specific to Dublin)  
> Not the full shilling = Not fully sane  
> Savage = Great/brilliant  
> Bang on = Right/Accurate/Correct  
> To make a right bags of something = Make a mess of something  
> The Pale = Anywhere in the region of Dublin


	4. The Mess of Wills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a future player makes an appearance, somebody goes missing, and Jim has a realization about his brother.  
> ~  
> This chapter is shorter than normal, but never fear! Next chapter we get into season one!!

"I swear to fucking god, Jim, if you don't stop talking I am going to  _end_ you," Q snarled.

"Gotta keep you awake, dear," his brother trilled in response, not sounding the least bit concerned about the threat and not even looking up from the phone in his hand. "Concussions are nasty things."

It had been three days since Evangeline had kidnapped Q in a petty show of actual competence. Putting a bullet between her eyes had been _incredibly_ satisfyinglistening to Arnesto being tortured even more so. But Jim was playing nurse in the worst way possible, over exaggerating every direction they'd been given. The  _worst_ thing Jim was doing was keeping him awake, because  _it wasn't bloody necessary anymore._

"No," Q ground out in response, the tenseness making his abused face throb, "that was only for the  _first night,_ Jim. Now let me get some bloody sleep! I do  _actually_ have a job I need to be getting to."

"But if you fall asleep," Jim began in that tone of his he used when he'd done something that caused him delight but that he knew would annoy Q, "how will you entertain your visitor?"

The hacker didn't say anything, glaring coldly at his brother as he waited for an explanation, and eventually Jim looked up with a cheeky smile. "It seems that your boyfriend noticed your three-day absence andas boyfriends are wont to dogot worried. Helpful Andy from Q-Branch informed Mycroft that you'd been terribly beaten up and were working from home for a few days while you healed up a bit more. I imagine he'll be stopping by  _vvveeeerrrrryyyyy_ soon."

Q stared at Jim incredulously. "So basically, you pretended to be an MI6 worker so that you could tell Mycroft Holmes that I  _hadn't_ been kidnapped, just hurt, and for some reason I was completely ignoring him?" Jim nodded happily. Q pinched the bridge of his nose and thought quickly. "Fine. Get rid of your presence."

"Excuse me?" his brother gasped in exaggerated offense.

"If Mycroft is going to be here  _'very soon',_ then you, brother dear, can _not_ be. Neither can the second set of dirty utensils, or the second glass, or the clear indent of another person having been sitting on this couch, or-"

"Yes, yes," Jim grumbled as he stood up, but he was smiling, "details, details, details..." And then he set about erasing all signs that anyone but Q had been in the flat, doing so with the trained skill of someone who saw the minutest of minutia and knew how to trick someone else who could as well.

"Alright, baby brother," Jim drawled, kissing Q on the forehead with a teasing grin, "I'd better be off. I trust you can handle Mr. Holmes doting all over you. See you soon."

Q threw a piece of popcorn at the back of Jim's head, which bounced off his combed black hair and then was caught in the criminal's hand. Jim shot him an amused look and tossed the popcorn into his mouth, winking as he slid out the door.

Half an hour later, there was a knock on the door. Q looked up from his laptop where he'd been working on an algorithm for Q-branch security and sighed. He was looking forward to seeing Mycroft _truly_ was, much to his own annoyancebut he hated lying about what had happened, and he also couldn't exactly say _Sorry I didn't call or text you back because my brother the terrorist was concerned about the screen-time with my concussion._

"One minute," Q called, setting down his laptop and shuffling over to the door. He glanced through the peephole just to be sure, and then swung open the door, smiling tiredly at his partner. "Hi, Mycroft."

The taller man didn't say anything, his eyes tracking the bruises and cuts and contusions, eyes narrowed. "It seems there's something you neglected to tell me," he said quietly, entering the flat when Q stepped to the side to admit him.

"I'm ok," the hacker said, closing and locking the door behind him. He walked back over to the couch and curled up, patting the spot beside him to indicate Mycroft should sit down. The official, however, looked far too tense to be able to relax. Q sighed internally.

"They caught me by surprise, came out of nowhere," Q told Mycroft to fill the silence and because he knew the man would want details. "Three of them, very big. Only one of them actually did the damage-" Mycroft would be able to tell if more than one person had punched him based on the patterns, "-but he was wearing brass knuckles and these two gold and silver rings. They then took my wallet, threw me down, and ran."

Mycroft pursed his lips and his eyes darted around, his hands folded together as if he was trying to keep them from twitching. Q stayed silent, waiting, and eventually Mycroft relaxed slightly and walked over to sit next to Q.

He kissed the hacker softly and sighed. "Why didn't you tell me? I was-" he cut himself off.

"Ready to mount a search party?" Q asked in a wry tone, but his smile was genuine. "At first I was too disoriented to think to ask for anyone, then the doctors wouldn't let me use my phone or computer because it would make my concussion worse, and then I couldn't find my bloody phone. Not an excellent excuse, I know, and I'm sorryas soon as I was able, I should've found a way to reach out. I would've been worried sick if our positions had been reversed."

"Why is Alec Trevelyan your emergency medical contact?" Mycroft blurted out.

Q blinked, startled, and tried to think of a good reason for that.

The  _real_ reason Alec was Q's emergency contact in his MI6 file was because he couldn't exactly put down Jim, and they needed a way to make sure Jim found out if Q was hurt. Alec Trevelyan was a respected MI6 operative and he'd be told if anything ever happened to Q, and then he would immediately relay the message to Jim. Alec had been a good middle ground. But Q had no idea how to explain that to his partner.

"I needed to have one in my file," Q said calmly, his mouth almost working on autopilot, "and 006 is reliable and a...I don't know,  _friend,_ I suppose. Plus I figured that if I was ever seriously hurt and MI6 needed to know about it, they'd immediately be kept in the loop through Trevelyan. It was a practical option."

After a moment, Mycroft smiled at him, small and amused. "Of course you'd choose a  _practical option_ for the one person called to your deathbed."

Q narrowed his eyes at the man, not actually offended. "Don't try to pull that on  _me,_ Mr. HolmesI bet your emergency contact is Anthea!" From the look at Mycroft's face, Q knew he was right. He laughed victoriously. "Thought so."

Mycroft kissed him again and Q sighed into his mouth, a soft kind of peace settling around him. "Come on," he murmured when they broke apart, "let's watch some awful soap operas and make fun of everything."

* * *

When Q met Irene Adler, it was because she stole from him.

She hadn't  _meant_ to, of course. Or, at least, she didn't realize that she was stealing or who she was stealing it  _from._ She'd just been (un)lucky enough to have a client that handled expensive items for Jim and Q, and then said client used said items as gifts for her. His reasoning didn't really matter to Q, betrayal was betrayal whether or not the man thought he was in _love._

Q tracked down the leak and plugged it quickly (Jim grinned as Sebastian beat the guy to a pulp), but the valuable items were still missing and in the possession of Irene Adler, a high-profile dominatrix. Which meant that Q was currently in The Woman's living room in the middle of the day waiting for her to get home.

He didn't have to wait long, which he'd already known he wouldn't; she had a three o'clock appointment with _John Jacobson,_ a low-level politician with a predilection towards being spanked and called a  _bad boy._ Mr. Jacobson had just been detainedtraffic violation, easily cleared upand thus would be late, but Ms. Adler didn't know that yet and she's arrive home soon to prepare for the appointment.

"Hello, Ms. Adler," Q said smoothly when she came through the front door and then entered the living room, pulling to a stop at the sight of Q relaxing on her white couch. He knew why she was startledher alarm had never gone off, her motion sensors hadn't alerted her to anything, and her cameras hadn't recorded anyone entering. Q was very good at being a ghost.

"I do apologize, but I have a previous engagement," the woman said, quickly regaining control of herself. Q would expect nothing less from someone as smart as her. "Maybe we can schedule an appointment for another time, Mr..."

Q easily brushed off the request for a name, still not looking up from his phone. Where her fingers were hidden inside her coat pocket she was dialing the policenot 999, but the personal number of the local police captain. Q cut the signal off quickly and efficiently, then looked up at her.

"I'm afraid Mr. Jacobson got pulled away on an urgent matter," he said with a polite smile, but his eyes remained blank. "And the cell service here is just _dreadful_ so Captain Adams won't be joining us, either. Please, won't you sit? There's a conversation we rather need to have."

Irene Adler was a very smart woman. When he'd been researching her Q had considered recruiting her simply because the way she adapted to fit others' needs (and how easily she controlled powerful people), but she was too much of a wild card, franklygood for short-term partnership, perhaps, but not anything else.

Slowly, the Woman walked further into the room and settled down into an armchair, crossing her legs and looking at him expectantly. She was nervous, but hiding it brilliantly. She was also trying to read him, to figure out how to be what  _he_ needed so she could control him. If Q hadn't been so adverse to sex he might've fucked her just to understand first-hand how good she was at her job.

"And what might that conversation be?" Ms. Adler asked, tilting her head. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you before."

"You have a client that goes by the name Andrew Morender, yes?" She didn't give any indication one way or the other, but Q didn't actually need her to. "Let me jog your memoryMr. Morender has been giving you rather expensive and rare _gifts_ to show his affections."

A smile slid onto Adler's face, coy and amused. She was trying to put them back on even ground, trying to gain control of the interaction. She was a dominatrix, after all; _control_ was what she did. "Many of my clients give me gifts."

Q hummed and looked her up and down. "I suppose they would. However, Mr. Morender's _gifts_ weren't his to give away. I'd like those items back. Now."

Adler's anxiety spiked again as Q's tone dropped. "I don't remember exactly what he gave me..." she began hesitantly.

"Liar," Q said simply, without heat. "You know exactly what came from each and every person you work with. You'd have to, because the lovesick fools would ask you about them and you're too smart to simply have a general statement of gratitude for all of them. But, alright, if you want to play dumb, I have a list of all the stolen items and pictures as well. Do you need assistance?"

"I don't keep everything here-" Adler tried again, wetting her lips.

Q didn't understand why she was being challenging. She didn't have any sentimental connection to the items, she hadn't given them away, and she knew he was dangerouswhy was she trying to hold onto what he wanted?

Then it hit himshe was trying to use them as her  _protection._ Q sighed. "Ms. Adler, I'm not going to kill you. I simply want what was taken from me and then we'll never have to cross paths again. The sooner you give me what I want, the sooner we can part ways. Yes?"

Adler slid gracefully to her feet, watching him carefully. "Who are you?" she asked.

Q's lips quirked in a small smile, the first real sign of emotion he'd shown in the entire meeting. "I don't believe my name is important. But if me being nameless makes you uncomfortable...well, I suppose you can call me M."

She looked at him with thinly veiled concern and then turned to walk from the room. "Follow me," she called smoothly, her voice once again even and controlled, "your things are rather spread out, I'm afraid."

The Woman wasn't lyingto get all of the (thirteen) items Morender had given Adler they had to walk all over the house; everything seemed to be in a separate room, and her house was  _huge._ She also had one of the items  _(a real Degas, fucking Morender)_ in a large safe in her basement, which meant that at least she had noticed the high value of _something_ in the collection.

Sebastian and a mercenary that worked for them named Carson were outside waiting by a van, and they carefully loaded all of the items inside, securing them in place. Sebastian sent him a questioning look and Q nodded, signaling that they could head out. He had a lunch date to get to after this, and he trusted them to make sure everything made it to the warehouse safely.

"Will I be seeing Andrew again?" Adler asked calmly when Q went back inside. _Did you kill him?_ was what she was really asking.

The hacker smiled, amused. "Not unless you feel like fucking a bucket of ashes," he said, and then was impressed by how well she hid her revulsion. In a moment of curiosity, Q scribbled down Jim's cell number and the initials _JM_ on a piece of paper and handed it to her. "If you ever have somethingand I mean  _really_ have something, not just some stupid gossip we could find anywheregive that number a call. Could easily make you rich."

Adler hesitated and then reached out, taking the piece of paper and slipping it into her pocket. She gave him an intense, searching look up and down, then smiled predatorily and stepped forward, just into his personal space. Q rose an eyebrow. "Now that business is out of the way..." she offered seductively, still trying to get control, and stroked a hand down his chest.

"Afraid not," Q said politely, ignoring the urge to take out the knife tucked into his belt.

The Woman smiled teasingly. "Wrong body parts?"

The hacker stepped away with a returning smile, walking slowly backwards towards the door. "Parts don't really matter to me, Ms. Adler. You simply speak the wrong language." Then he inclined his head politely, said, "Have a lovely afternoon," and swept from the house.

* * *

When Sherlock called, Q ignored it. He did the same the second time, and then the third. The consulting detective had gotten his cellphone number a while agohe didn't know how, but it didn't matter muchand seemed to share Jim's affinity for calling right when Q was in the middle of something and annoying the hell out of him.

It wasn't that Q didn't like Sherlock; on the contrary, he got along pretty well with Mycroft's arrogant little brother. In the five months since he'd met the detective they'd hung out alone a few times, much to Mycroft's slight bafflement and Jim's strange delight. Sherlock was intelligent and clever and acted sociopathic but honestly he had a ridiculously huge _heart_ in his chest. Talking with him was always interesting and Q easily stepped around the detective's insulting attitude.

But right then Q was busy, so he pressed  _Ignore Call_ three times before he accepted the call and answered with a sighed, "Sherlock, I'm working."

"Yes, yes, just tell my brother to stop ignoring my phone calls," the detective snapped back. "Hasn't been answering all day and I have something for him, the bloody prick..."

"Your brother ignored you for a month because he didn't want you to know something," Q replied with a smirk, putting the phone on speaker so he could talk and still work. "One day isn't going to kill you. Though it's sweet, how badly you want to talk to your brother."

When the detective spoke, Q could hear his scowl. "Oh please. He wanted this information, the least he could do is pick up the damn phone. I solved the murder of one of his men, after all; think Mycroft should be grateful."

Q straightened, frowning, his fingers momentarily stilling. "The Miguel Vargas killing?" Sherlock made a sound of confirmation. "And he hasn't been answering? That was priority one..."

"I know!" Sherlock exclaimed, as if he was feeling validated. "For some petty reason he's not answering when I just solved something  _huge-!"_

"Sherlock," Q interrupted urgently. He picked up his desk's landline and dialed Mycroft's number from memory. It went straight to voicemail, no ringing, no answer. He put the phone down and took a deep breath. "When was the last time you talked to Mycroft?"

The detective paused, clearly having sensed the shift in Q's tone. "Eight this morning, maybe. What's going on?"

While Sherlock spoke Q hacked the GPS on Mycroft's phone and saw...nothing. No signal. Mycroft  _never_ turned off his phonehe was literally too important for that to be acceptableand never put himself in a situation where it would die. There could be a perfectly safe reason that it was broken, of course, but Q refused to play into wishful thinking; something had happened, and he had to find Mycroft  _immediately._

"There's no signal in his GPS," Q told Sherlock, "and he didn't answer when I called, either. He's not ignoring you, Sherlock; he's missing."

Ignoring the detective's squawk, Q turned towards the landline and called M's office. She picked up immediately and Q said, "Mycroft Holmes is missing. Last confirmed communication was-" he checked his cellphone for the exact time of the call with his partner earlier, "-ten past eleven this morning. Phone is unresponsive. He was currently focused on the Vargas assassination but obviously this could-"

"Thank you, R," M cut him off crisply. "We'll find him."

Q paused, a realization hitting him. "You already knew," he said dully. "You already knew he was  _missing-"_ he sucked in a deep breath. "Why wasn't I informed? I am the best this organization has-"

"And you're romantically involved with him," M finished for him, no nonsense. "Which makes you  _compromised,_ R, despite your inclination towards cold effectualness. You are not allowed anywhere near this situation, is that understood? We will inform you when we find him." Then she hung up, leaving Q with a loud dial tone and a terrible fear gripping his heart.

"I'll let you know if I find anything, Sherlock," Q said with forced calm. "You do the same, do you understand?"

"R," Sherlock rushed to say, "we'll find him, don't worry. We don't need MI6, we can-"

Q hung up on the detective; he didn't have the time or the patience to deal with Sherlock's tendency towards the erratic at the moment. In the sudden silence of his room Q sat completely still, staring at nothing, a million fears and possibilities and plans racing through his mind.

Eventually he gained enough control over his body to pick up his phone and type out a quick text to Jim.  _Did you take him?_

The response was immediate in the form of his phone ringing. "What happened?" his brother asked as soon as Q picked up.

"Mycroft is gone," the hacker said in a clipped tone. "Last time I talked to him was eleven-thirteen this morning. Sherlock hasn't been able to get a hold of him all day. His phone isn't online. I told M but apparently she already knew." He tucked his cellphone between his shoulder and ear and pulled his laptop towards him, pulling up the program he'd set up a while back that let him into M's systems. It was a one-time-only kind of thing, but, well. Desperate times.

"It wasn't me," Jim said brightly. "But that's not a bad idea, actually!" Q grit his teeth. "Work him over as if we're some terrorist cell and then have you save the day; it'd be a great bonding tool!"

"Jim," Q snapped. "I don't have time for this. Will you send out some feelers, see if you know who has him? I'm working it from my end and Sherlock's doing whatever he does, too, but M's keeping me out of the loop and the Moriarty name carries a lot of weight."

There was a short pause that stretched into a long one. Q used the silence to concentrate on stealthily getting past M's firewalls. Eventually Jim said in a cautious tone, "Alright. I'll see what I can do. But Q, are you-"

"Talk to you later," Q interrupted, lowering his cellphone and hitting the  _End Call_ button just as he gained access to everything M had. He immediately searched for everything related to Mycroft's current situation and found a startling lack of information, but a video that made his blood run cold.

Q watched the video (one minute and seven seconds long) over and over again until every movement, every word, every inflection and cough and groan was seared into his brain. Until he could close his eyes and perfectly see each cut and lash and bruise on Mycroft's naked body. Until he had every visible detail of the captors memorized so that if he every passed them on the street he would  _know_ them.

He sent the video to Jim and thenafter a moment's thought and hesitationto Sherlock as well. He got two texts in response but didn't look at them; if the criminal or the detective found something they'd call. So Q worked on tracking down the source of the video. He also analyzed everything visible in the video, from the type of drywall to the coloring of mud on the captors' shoes.

M was a fucking  _idiot_ for not letting Q run this thing. He was the best of the best. He'd have a location in no time.

Q narrowed down the radius. He accepted a call from Anthea who told him everything she knew. At twelve-twenty-one Mycroft left the Diogenes Club through the backdoor because there'd been a disturbance on the main street  _(stupid, stupid, stupid)._ The people who took him killed his driver. They switched cars five times that Q could track (three times that MI6 could) before he lost them. It helped him narrow it down a little further.

The hacker sent his search radius to Jim and Sherlock to see if they had anything to contribute. Ten minutes of watching the video again and again later, Jim called, saying that he'd found where the men were holding Mycroft within the area Q had narrowed down. Q was moving before his brother had even finished giving him all the details.

He met up with Jim and their strike team and went quickly over the plan, ignoring his brother's intense, searching gaze. On the ride over Q had examined the schematics of the building Mycroft was being held in, as well as hacking the seven security cameras to see guard rotations and where precisely they were holding Mycroft.

A couple times as they made their way to the building Q could sense Jim wanting to speak to him, but he ignored his brotherhe couldn't think about anything other than saving Mycroft right then; he didn't have time for whatever conversation Jim wanted to have.

Their strike teamled by Sebastianmoved quickly and efficiently, taking out the terrorists with deadly precision. Q remained right with the front line, a bullet proof vest on and his handgun aimed for instant headshots in everyone they came across. He directed the team to the lower basement level (predictable, clichéd) and walked at a brisk pace, barely stopping himself from breaking into a run.

It took him less than ten seconds to hack the electronic lock on Mycroft's cell and pull the thick metal door open. He swallowed his fear and panic, smothering it with his cold efficiency, and approaching the limp form of his partner, hanging from his chained wrists from the ceiling. He was completely naked, his body bruised and beaten, and his head was against his chest. There was no indication of consciousness.

Q rushed forward, pressing two fingers to Mycroft's neck to check for a pulse, and suppressed his flood of relief when he found oneweak, but still there. "Mycroft," he murmured, lifting the elder man's head gently, palms against his bruised cheeks. Mycroft's eyelids fluttered but they didn't open and his body remained just as limp as ever.

"Sebastian," Q called sharply, not looking away from Mycroft's face, "grab some bolt cutters and help me get him down." The soldier did so without question or snarky comment as was his normal way, simply stepping forward and cutting the chains suspending Mycroft in the air. Two of the strike team men helped Q gently lower the government official to the ground, and then lift him onto a stretcher that came from somewhere.

Q stayed at Mycroft's side the entire time; into the van, into the garage, into the waiting ambulance where Jim and the other men said their goodbyes, his brother still trying to catch his eye, then into the hospital, and then he parked himself by Mycroft's bedside when the doctors stopped running their tests.

M showed up twenty minutes later. She looked at him with sharp eyes and pursed lips and when she spoke her words were crisp and precise. "I ordered you to stay away from this situation."

The hacker didn't even look at her, his eyes fixed on Mycroft's heartrate monitor. It was a little erratic. The doctors assured him that was normal; it would take a little while for Mycroft's body to stabilize after the consistent abuse. "If you thought I'd actually follow that command then you are not as intelligent as I believed," he said, voice devoid of emotion.

He couldn't see it, but he could feel M narrow her eyes. "You hacked my network and stole classified intelligence."

"It took me about half an hour to find him," Q replied, unrepentant. "Twenty more minutes to rescue him and have him in a hospital. You'd been working on the problem for five hours. It was idiotic to keep me out of this, romantic tie or not."

M didn't say anything. Q continued to stare at Mycroft's heartrate monitor. It was already becoming more even. Then, "What team did you use to retrieve him? You didn't utilize any MI6 resources."

"You made it clear that MI6 resources were out of the question. I used an old contact from my freelance days. We can debrief later, if that's alright with you; I think the fact that I'm _compromised_ is rather getting in the way of my focus at the moment." Then he looked at her, blank and even, and waited.

She sighed, shook her head, looked at him sharply one last time, and then departed. Q closed his eyes and focused on the slowly steadying _beep, beep, beep..._

* * *

Sherlock arrived not long after, grilled Q about everything that had happened (and about Mycroft's condition), and then swept from the room; Q didn't care enough to ask where he was going. A nurse came in half an hour later and tried to tell Q that visiting hours were ending, but when Q didn't move an inch she sighed, left, and returned with a sandwich and a cup of coffee for him.

Exactly when Q had predicted he would, Jim showed up.

His brother stood in the doorway, hands in his suit pockets, and watched Q. The hacker waited for whatever Jim was going to come at him with.

"Oh, you idiot," Jim sighed after a while. He walked into the room, pulling up a chair and plopping himself down next to Q. "You love him. You _actually_ fucking love him."

Q scoffed, the words  _Don't be ridiculous_ on the tip of his tongue, but they were empty and untrue. Instead, he let the silence fall.

"It's going to start very soon, Q," Jim said quietly after realizing that the younger Moriarty wasn't going to say anything. "I need to know if you can handle this. Can you do this? Because if you love him, Jamie, then-"

"I can do this," Q interrupted, hating that Jim was doubting him, hating the way his stomach rolled with nausea. "Always and forever, Jim, you know that. Say the word and he's dead."

Jim didn't reply, just pulled his chair closer to Q's own and wrapped an arm around his little brother's shoulders, tucking the hacker's head against his neck. He then began to sing, a soothing lullaby from when they were kids. Jim had sung that a lot after Q had been kidnapped eleven years ago. It had been comforting then, and it was comforting now.


	5. The Study and the Banker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim sponsors a serial killer, Q struggles with his feelings, and Sherlock finds a friend.  
> (Plus, you know, everything begins.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ariane DeVere on LiveJournal for posting an excellent transcript of A Study in Pink, from which I've used some dialogue. (I'll probably use her stuff for future episodes as well.)
> 
> Also, I had 5500 words of this chapter (out of the 6300) written by June 2nd, but then ya know life got in the way. So, sorry! It's here now. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Plus, completely unimportant side note: it is now 12:02am, which means technically I'm posting this on June 11, but I finished it on the 10th!!

"You need to stop sponsoring serial killers," Q sighed, shaking his head as Jim gleefully dropped a newspaper in his brother's lap. The headline article was about the suicide of James Phillimore, an event that matched the circumstances of the suicide of Sir Jeffrey Pattersonsame poison, both found in places they shouldn't have been...

Jeff Hope was a smart man, and was likely to get away with it. Q just wished his brother would stop giving insane people money to kill others. Not that Jim was any less insane, but still. At least the elder Moriarty wasn't actively hunting in the streets of London. Q would actually have to strangle his brother if he did that.

"But it's so much fun!" Jim protested. "Poor Jeffie is terminally ill, anyhow; I'm helping a dying man's family! Isn't that, like, a saintly thing?" Q gave his brother a look. Jim smiled cheekily. "Come on, Q, it does no harm. To  _us,_ anyhow. Honestly, if those people are too dumb to figure out Hope's trick than it's their own damn fault if they end up dead."

Q shook his head, looking down at the article, but a smile was tugging at his lips. The smile died when he saw who the detective on the case was. "Lestrade," Q sighed heavily, slumping back in the dining room chair. "Which means..."

Jim hummed in acknowledgment, having seen that in the article as well. "Yup," he said, popping the  _P._ "Which means sometime soon Sherlock Holmes will be brought in. After the fourth one, I think. Though he'll definitely be bugging them before then."

The tone of Jim's voice was amused, excited, and slightly fond. Q pursed his lips.

Over the last couple months, Jim's obsession with Sherlock had started to grow exponentially. Every time Q saw the detective Jim wanted to hear every detail. He followed Sherlock's cases religiously. His files on the younger Holmes grew so thick that they included exactly how he took his tea, exactly how much sugar he put in his coffee. They were very close to a tipping point, and Sherlock wasn't helping by continuing to meddle in their affairs.

"The fact that you're looking forward to your guy being captured doesn't say good things about the way we're running our business."

His brother rolled his eyes. "I just sent good ol' Jeff a message warning him about a certain darling detective that could potentially cause him trouble. Jeffie is smart, anyhow, and his cabbie shtick is  _marvelous._ There's a chance he may evade Sherlock yet."

Q cast his eyes skyward, letting out a slow breath. "Oh please, Jim; don't pretend you aren't hoping that Sherlock solves it and takes down Hope. You're  _baiting_ him at this point, and sometime soon he's going to put it together. Honestly Jim, you're very near flying too close to the sun."

"That's what I have you for!" Jim crowed happily, placing a teasing peck on Q's cheek. The hacker scowled at him, but Jim's smile didn't waver. "It's _fine,_ Q,  _relaaax._ Everything is going to work out perfectly."

"Work out by your standards, or by mine?" Q asked, but his irritation was already fading, plans forming in his head as he tried to work out how best to protect Jim when his brother inevitably singed his wings.

* * *

James Bond was presenting Q with a problem.

Alec assured the hacker that he could handle 007 just fine, but 006 had a tendency to overestimate his ability to control others. Which meant that despite what his agent said, Q  _still_ had a James Bond problem.

Q had never actually  _met_ the Double-Oh. He'd seen him around Q-Branch and he'd handed gadgets off to him, a word or two accompanying them, but none of that could be considered an actual meeting, and frankly Q was perfectly happy with that. Bond was one of those blunt instruments that rose just enough above his status to actually become something of a terrifyingly competent scalpel, and now he was  _a problem._

"You don't need to worry," Alec assured him yet again, lounging on the couch in Q's office as the hacker worked. "James is smart, yea, but he doesn't go  _looking_ for issues. He's not going to notice any of the irregularities."

"If he hadn't noticed any of them we wouldn't be having this conversation," Q snapped in response. Honestly, Trevelyan struggled with knowing when to shut his bloody mouth. That seemed to be a common trait in Double-Ohs, actually, but Alec should've known better with Qthe hacker wouldn't mourn for a moment if he put a bullet in 006's head and tossed him in the Thames.

"Yea, but-" Trevelyan tried again.

"And should I remind you whose fault this is in the first place?" Q cut him off sharply, turning around in his desk chair to pin Alec with a piercing glare. 006 deflated a little, cowed by the words and the cold look.  _"Exactly._ You had one bloody job on that mission, and it was to get the flash-drive and erase the copy on the server. That's all! Instead you had fucking 007 enter the room _with_ you and guard your back while you stole intel  _unsanctioned_  and for a _criminal organization,_  and when asked later about that period of the mission, you  _stumbled over your statement._ So tell me, Alexander, how you  _have this under control?"_

Q didn't want to kill Bond. He was useful and good at his job, and causing his death would garner too many unwanted questions, even if Q pulled it off flawlessly. The man was M's favorite agenthis death wouldn't just be  _let go._ But if they didn't get a handle on this and soon, then they wouldn't have any other option.

"James is curious, but he's not  _investigating,"_ Alec protested, a little weakly. The man was a very good agent, especially of the Double-Oh variety, but he tended to crumble when faced with Q or Jim's anger. Both Moriarty brothers found that to be quite the useful thing. "We can redirect him, make him think something else was going on, take his focus off of whatever information I took."

"Do you have an actual  _idea_ in your rambling, or just a general  _we could try this?"_ Q asked, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. 006 winced. Q sighed. "I thought not. Well, as per usual, I am going to fix this. Don't be surprised if my solution doesn't exactly put you in a good light." Alec's eyes widened slightly in alarm. "Oh, calm down, I'm not going to implicate you as a criminal. But you don't get a say in this anymore. Now get out; I have work to do."

The hacker did, in fact, have work to do, work that didn't involve the screw-ups of traitorous Double-Oh agents. Work that involved trying to keep up with his brother's ever-changing moods in relation to Sherlock Holmes, rapidly switching from elated and trying to pull Holmes closer to annoyed and wanting Sherlock to get the hell away from their business.

He also, of course, had  _actual_ MI6 work to be doing, but seeing as most of that was child's play, the Moriarty organization took precedent. And not just Jim's insane swings of fancy, but they also had various clients waiting for the Consulting Criminal to fix all their little problems. Quite a few, actually; most of them had been put on the back burner as Sherlock began to inch closer.

Q absently reached for his phone when it buzzed, and saw there was a text from Mycroft.  _It seems that they are finally releasing me._ Another one came in barely a moment later.  _Honestly, they should've let me go five days ago._

The fact that Mycroft was texting instead of calling, however, said otherwise. Q was up out of his seat with his bag and to the elevator before he was even fully aware of it.

* * *

"Are you sure you're alright?" Q asked, his eyebrows furrowed in slight concern.

Mycroft sent him a look, a mixture of exasperation, fondness, and slight annoyance, and said, "I'm  _fine,_ James. The fact that I've been in the hospital for six days when  _one_ would've sufficed-"

"Says that the doctors know better than you and saw that something was wrong," Q interrupted. A trait the Holmes brothers sharedand neither would admit towas that both seemed perfectly happy to ignore the fact that they're  _human_ and thus could be hurt as such; Mycroft could be bleeding out from a gut wound and he would remain standing as if nothing were wrong. It was fucking ridiculous.

"And honestly," Q muttered under his breath, helping Mycroft into his coat, "the fact that they decided to release you the  _one day_  I was not here is very frustrating. Five days by your bedside refusing to move and the first day I go back to work they give the all clear. Bloody ridiculous."

When the hacker looked up, Mycroft was smiling at him, amused. "Speaking of work..." he trailed off expectantly.

Q rolled his eyes. "Oh, please; you and I both know that me leaving in the middle of the day will do  _nothing_ to impede my level of work. All the current projects I've been assigned are completed, and M is still tiptoeing around me so she's not going to chastise me for leaving early. Boothroyd is too much of a romantic to do so. Now I'm taking you home. Is that understood?"

Mycroft's smile grew, fond and gentle. Something in Q's chest fluttered ridiculously.

Since Jim's realization six days ago, his brother had been watching him closely. Not with suspicion, like Q had expected, but with something resembling concern. His voice was always strangely measured when he talked about the elder Holmes brother, like he was expecting Q to get defensive. As if, after having been with Mycroft for almost seven months, Q would  _suddenly_ act fearful for his partner's safety.

_(Q was constantly worried about Mycroft, about what his fate would be. The other night the hacker had woken up from a nightmare where Jim had given the order and Q had put a nine millimeter bullet right between his partner's eyes. He wished he didn't know that that was a strong possibility in the future.)_

But he didn't let it affect him. Accept the things you can't change, and all that. It wouldn't do him any good to make his concern known to Mycroft, who would never be able to let it go until he found out exactly what was wrong. He didn't want Mycroft to worry; he just wanted to be  _happy_ with his partner, while it lasted. Q didn't know what Jim had in store for the elder Holmes, but the man wouldn't escape unscathed.

"Alright," Mycroft said softly, still smiling, "home it is." He reached out for Q's hand and the hacker took it, leading his partner towards the door.

The ride was brief, the hospital not too far from Mycroft's home, and Q helped the other man up the stairs despite his protests; Mycroft's wincing was enough evidence to his need for help even if he wouldn't ask for it.

Q grabbed Mycroft a pair of comfortable pajamas to which he frowned at, and the hacker just smirked. The official wasn't going to be going to work for at least a few more days (Q had made sure of  _that)_ and sitting on the couch in a three-piece suit seemed utterly ridiculous to Q, especially when pajamas would be softer on Mycroft's tender skin and injuries.

When Mycroft was settled, Q sat down next to him, pulling his laptop from his bag as well as a book. He passed the book to his partner and smiled when the elder man made a sound of pleased surprise; in the hospital the doctors really hadn't wanted him readingconcussion, Q could sympathizeand now that he was out (and not supposed to be working) Q had brought along something for Mycroft to enjoy.

"Thank you," his partner murmured. The hacker nodded, glancing over with a smile, and then opened his laptop. He wasn't daring enough  _(stupid_ enough) to work on anything related to the Moriarty organization  _right next to_ the physical embodiment of the British government, but there was some precursor coding he could accomplish for some future security work they may or may not end up doing.

Mycroft said something and Q blinked down at his computer, coming out of the intense mindset he'd been in. The time in the corner of his screen read two hours past when he'd sat down, though Q for the life of him couldn't actually remember having felt so much time pass.

He blinked again and rose his head, looking over at Mycroft. His partner was watching him very seriously, but there was something soft and loving in his eyes. "Sorry, what did you say? I didn't..."

The official smile slightly, amused at how focused Q had been on what he'd been doing, and then repeated, "Would you like to move in with me?"

Well, Q completely forgot about his coding  _now._

The hacker's mouth opened and closed a few times with nothing coming out, and then he managed to say, "What?" It sounded far squeakier than he'd intended it to.

Mycroft licked his lips in an almost nervous gesture but he seemed overall very calm. "I have very much loved these past seven monthswell, seven months in a weekand I think you have, as well. I have never met someone with whom I truly connect, and day after day you continue to make me happy. This might be early, but I suppose, well..." he licked his lips again, and this time his eyes skirted away. "I suppose it just feels right to take this step. With you."

Q felt faint. This presented a  _lot_ of problems.

He wanted to say yes. The part of him that loved Mycroft, that wanted to  _have_ this relationship in a real sense and not as some sort of honeypot, wanted to say  _yes, yes, yes_ because he agreed with Mycroft; taking this step felt  _right._ But if he lived with Mycroft, then it would become infinitely harder to see Jim, let  _alone_ actually run a criminal organization. His time would have to be accounted for always. With his own apartment he could go out for hours handling some Moriarty enterprise and no one would be the wiser. But  _living_ with Mycroft? That couldn't happen. He couldn't claim it was some secret, extra work for MI6, because Mycroft could  _easily_ know that wasn't true. This was a bad idea.

This was something Q needed to talk to Jim about. They needed to weigh the  _serious_ pros and cons of this decision. Because what if Q said no? Would that make things awkward between him and Mycroft? Would that make Mycroft think Q didn't feel as strongly about him, and thus want to pull away? Saying no could damage their relationship. But saying yes could damage his ability to do his job.

"I love you," Q breathed. It was the first time he'd said it aloud, though he'd been thinking it a _lot_ in the past week, after Jim made him face it in the hospital room. It was also the first time he'd ever said it to someone other than his brother. That, more than anything else, made the words feel heavy, feel  _important._ And Mycroft could never actually know that.

His partner looked at him as if he was also realizing he'd never said it, and then he cupped Q's cheek and kissed his tenderly. "I love you, too," he murmured, touching his forehead to the hacker's own. Though he'd known Mycroft loved him (or at least believed it firmly), Q still felt extraordinarily happy to have it confirmed.

Q couldn't do this to Mycroft. Couldn't move in with him, couldn't give him such  _hope,_ couldn't take this momentous step as if they were just a regular couple in love with each other. He was already going to destroy Mycroft when the truth came out, but if he  _lived_ with him? What sort of  _invasion_ that must feel like. Knowing that an enemy had lived in your very house, slept night after night in your bed. Q had already done enough. He wouldn't do this.

"I love you," Q said again, stronger this time, and kissed Mycroft firmly, one hand gripping the back of his partner's neck. He curled his fingers through the short hairs at the base of his skull and pressed closer, close as he could get, and then let out a shuddering breath when he didn't feel the familiar rising panic at Mycroft's hand on his hip, Mycroft's arm wrapped around him.

 _I love you, I love you,_ Q tried to convey in every press of his lips, every swipe of his tongue, and when he was sure he could do it he pushed himself up and straddled Mycroft's lap, pressing even closer.

Instantly, Mycroft cut the kiss off and stilled, pulling back slightly to meet Q's eyes. His expression was questioning and slightly concerned. The hacker held his gaze steadily, making sure his partner saw the complete lack of panic, of flashbacks, and then experimentally rolled his hips down against the elder man's, never breaking eye contact.

Mycroft's breathing hitched. "Are you...what is..."

Q kissed him, swallowing the questions down. They didn't need to be asked; Q knew by now that if he felt uncomfortable, his partner wouldn't hesitate to stop, no protests put forth.

Mycroft made a sound deep in his throat, low and satisfied, which made Q shudder pleasantly. The taller man wrapped an arm around his waist, the other hand going up to cup his cheek, and after a moment of hesitation Mycroft pulled lightly at the edge of Q's button-down, tugging it up from where it was tucked into Q's slacks. Q's movements stuttered for a moment, making Mycroft's hand still, but then the momentary unease vanished and Q reached down himself to untuck his shirt, pulling it free. In one quick movement his removed his sweater, as well.

"You are beautiful," Mycroft whispered against his lips, his hand now stroking the soft skin just above Q's waistband. "Utterly,  _utterly_ beautiful. I am unbelievably lucky to have you." The hand on his cheek moved downward, caressing his neck, then running soothingly down his back, before it landed on Q's ass, squeezing ever-so-slightly, simply testing the waters. The feeling was...not unpleasant.

"I'm afraid I don't want to go farther than this," Q whispered, because Mycroft ought to know that no more clothing was going to be removed, no sex was going to take place. But Mycroft just shook his head and smiled, looking at him as if saying  _Of course, you moron, and I'm perfectly alright like this._ Q smiled back.

He was going to destroy this man someday very soon. But for the moment, he could just be  _happy._

* * *

A third "suicide" happened, a Mrs. Beth Davenport, the Junior Minster for Transport. The public was anxious. The police were confused. Jim was utterly delighted.

Out of curiosity, Q watched the press conference DI Lestrade and Sargent Donovan held to address the issue at hand. They were officially labeling them as  _"linked",_ which the press seemed unable to actually handle as a fact. One reporter protested that  _you can't have serial suicides._ To which the irritated DI replied  _well apparently you can._ He then followed it up by saying that they hadn't found a connection between the people yet, but there  _has to be one._

"Utterly incorrect," Q said with a smirk. Less than a moment later there was a collective sounds of multiple phones going off, and Sargent Donovan looked down at her own cell as well. Her face twisted unhappily. Q was pulling out his phone and typing a text to Sherlock before a reported even got the chance to say _It just Says 'Wrong'_.

 _You are such a prick, do you know that?_ Q sent to the younger Holmes, but he was still smiling.

Sherlock responded just as all the cellphones in the press conference room went off again, presumably declaring _Wrong_ to what Lestrade had just said about having his best people working on the problem. _I know_ , was Sherlock's message to Q. The hacker could practically hear the detective's smirk. Lestrade's phone then went off alone, and the DI sighed at the screen. Q laughed.

The press conference came to a quick end, and Q wondered if Jim would be right; after the fourth person was dead, would Lestrade finally call Sherlock in? The third just proved that something was happening, anxiety in the public starting to rise, and a forth would just amp that up. The police would want to wrap it up, and Sherlock was the best. But they were proud, too; Q's prediction was that they wouldn't call him in until something was different.

Jeff Hope was very good. Q hoped he wouldn't mess up, both for Jim's sake, the Moriarty organization's, and Sherlock's.

The next evening at just past seven his phone buzzed again with a text from the consulting detective: _Fourth one left a note. The idiots are finally calling me in._

Well, it seemed like both Jim and Q were right; it _was_ the fourth death, but it was because something was different about this one. That tended to be the way they worked, Q found sometimes; both right about something and forming a full picture.

About half an hour after Sherlock's text, Mycroft called. Briefly Q stared down at the screen, wondering if the elder Holmes was also focused on the "suicides", but it was a bit small-time for how powerful Mycroft actually was. Q picked up the phone and said, "Hello, Mycroft; how are you?"

 _"Very well, James,"_ his partner replied, his voice almost distracted. _"It seems Sherlock has found himself a...well, I'm not sure what to call this person."_ Q frowned. Mycroft elaborated. _"Yesterday afternoon my brother met a Dr. John Watson at St. Bart's. Maybe forty-five minutes ago they were seen at an apartment on Baker Street, one owned by a past client of Sherlock's; apparently they're going to be flatmates. And now Sherlock has brought Dr. Watson along to a crime scene. It is...most odd."_

Q leaned back in his seat, frowning at nothing in particular. Mycroft was right; that _was_ odd. Sherlock Holmes was by no means a social person, and didn't like interacting with people past what was absolutely necessary. Q was something of an exception in that regard, but that was mostly because he was one of the only two people in the world the detective could actually speak intelligently with, and he was too resentful (and Mycroft too snobby) to do so with his brother.

This was an unknown factor, one Jim and Q had most certainly not considered.

The hacker sighed in exasperation. "You're going to offer him money, aren't you?" There was a brief pause, which really told Q all he needed to know. "Mycroft, you can't keep testing people who interact with your brother! First Lestrade, then Ms. Hooper, and now this Dr. Watson-"

 _"I most certainly can,"_ Mycroft said tartly, though Q knew he wasn't actually upset with his partner. _"It is not beyond the realm of possibility that someone might get close to Sherlock in an attempt to get to me. Or, even worse, there might be someone spending a lot of time around Sherlock who could be easily_ bought, _for_ whatever _the offender's nefarious purpose may be. I will continue to test everyone Sherlock makes a habit of spending copious amounts of time with. Frankly, I think you would do the same, if you'd actually kept your brother close."_

Q was well aware how protective Mycroft was over his little brother. He doubted Sherlock even realized the full scope of what Mycroft did for him, or if he did know he certainly took it for granted. Talking about Sherlock with the elder Holmes could bring out numerous emotions at the same time, ranging from sadness to protectiveness to flat-out annoyance. So Q understood why Mycroft was acting a little testy, given the situation. But using Q's brother as a means of making a pointand in not the kindest waywas unexpected.

Since telling Mycroft the (mostly made up) story about _Sullivan James_ all those months ago, Mycroft had only ever brought up the subject a couple times, and always with a soft voice and understanding air. What Mycroft knew _(thought_ he knew, at least) was that Q had given his elder brother the tools to create a new life for himself so that he wouldn't be anywhere near Q's illegal acts, and hadn't talked to him or seen him since. None of that was true of course, but it was the best fitting lie Q had been able to come up with.

Since the hacker never really talked about it _(not wanting to lie to his partner more than he had to)_ , Q knew that Mycroft had just assumed it was a touchy subject, a subject that made Q feel melancholy. Which made him using it as a point here very odd. Especially since his voice was sharp when he said it.

Q stayed silent. He heard Mycroft sigh.  _"I'm sorry,"_ the elder man said, quiet and soft.  _"I didn't mean to...that was uncalled for."_

"It's alright," Q replied quietly. "I do understand your instincts towards Sherlock, and you're rightif I hadn't...if I hadn't sent Sullivan away, I probably would vet everyone he came into contact with very thoroughly. I have to go, Mycroft; Boothroyd has me working on something and I'm afraid he's being strangely picky. I'll talk to you later, yes?"

 _"Of course,"_ his partner replied. There was a pause.  _"I truly apologize, James; I was anxious and distracted, but that isn't an excuse to use your brother as an argument point."_ Another pause.  _"I love you."_

Q closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath. He hated this, he hated lying so much, he hated this fucking fabricated story that made Mycroft feel like shit. "I love you, too."

* * *

"He was the shooter, correct?" Q asked Sherlock as soon as the detective sat down across from him.

Normally, Sherlock was a pretty good liar. He was very good at adapting to situations and becoming who he needed to be in order to get what he wanted. A flaw of his, though, was that when he was really caught by surprise, he always had a moment where his true emotions showed before he evened himself out. Sometimes it took him longer than others. This time his eyes widened a little, his lips parted, and then his expression smoothed and he rose an eyebrow.

"Who was what shooter?" the detective asked as he flagged down a waitress.

Q waited in silence as Sherlock placed his lunch order, drumming his fingers against the table, and when she'd left and he had Sherlock's full attention, he smiled. "I can spell it out for you, if you like, but we both know the truth and I would prefer you to not be purposefully obtuse. It's unbecoming."

"Did you know Mycroft offered John money to spy on me?" Sherlock blurted out of the blue. He sounded petulant and a little...betrayed. Q held in a sigh.

The detective did not generally get close to people, and as both Q and Mycroft had noted in the past, the hacker seemed to have become something of a rarity in that department. At least once a week Q and Sherlock got together for lunch, or coffee, or sometimes just working together in silence, Sherlock on his experiments and Q on his laptop. Their friendship continued to baffle Mycroft and delight Jim, and Q found that he himself was rather fond of the detective.

The problem was that sometimes Sherlock seemed to forget that Q was Mycroft's partner, had been for seven monthsthat was how they  _met,_ after all. But Sherlock never spent time with Q  _and_ Mycroft, just one-on-one with the hacker, which seemed to have instilled in Sherlock the idea that Q was the detective's friend first, and when Q kept Mycroft's secrets from him or took Mycroft's side, Sherlock seemed almost betrayed.

Q let it slide, because Sherlock didn't really have people. But it made balancing his relationships with the two Holmes brothers much more challenging, because he didn't want to alienate Sherlock, but Mycroft came first.

"He did mention that, yes," Q said evenly. Sherlock glared. Q let out an exasperated breath, picking up an apple slice from his plate. "Oh, be honestyou’re just a tiny bit pleased."

"What, with my brother meddling in my life?" Sherlock scoffed.

Q smiled. "With  _John,_ knowing for sure that he is who he says he is. No ulterior motives. No chance of betraying you when offered some money. Just like you know that about _Lestrade,_ and _Molly,_ and like you knew that about Nurse Emily back at your rehab facility. And John told you about it immediately, didn't keep it to himself like he was contemplating maybe one day accepting. You  _know_ you're glad that you know for sure."

Sherlock scowled, but he didn't dispute the claim, as Q knew he wouldn't. Having that kind of solid assurance that you could trust those around you was comforting, whether or not you admitted to it.

The waitress came, giving Sherlock his food, and refilled Q's water glass. When she left, Q looked at Sherlock expectantly. "Now; will you tell me what happened?"

In all honestly, Q already knew  _exactly_ what happened with Jeff Hope two days previous. Jim had had Sebastian follow the cabbie and the detective that night, to ensure nothing went wrong. Because despite the fact that Jim said he had  _complete faith in Sherlock's ability to come out ok,_ the criminal wanted a back-up, just in case. Turned out that was unnecessary, considering someone else was there and shot Hope before Sherlock could take the risk.

Sebastian hadn't seen who the person was, but Q  _knew_ it was John Watson. His loyalty had formed very early, and very completely. He'd  _killed_ a man for Sherlock after only spending a few hours with him, after all. It was very impressive, and if Sherlock had connected to John in the same way, then...well, it would be a new piece on the board in Jim's game.

After a hesitant moment, Sherlock told him the story, starting from the meeting in St. Bart's to sitting in the ambulance and realizing that it was John who shot Jeff Hope to save him. The way Sherlock was speaking, the small smile on his face as he described John... _damn,_ the detective was already so far gone.

"It seems," Q murmured when Sherlock finished speaking, "that you found someone you fit with." Sherlock gaped at him. Q smiled softly. "I think you should take a chance. You don't have to be alone anymore, Sherlock."

Something vulnerable passed through the detective's eyes and he looked away, shaking his head at the window. His voice, when he spoke, was dry, but a little thick. "I can't believe you remember exactly what you said. That's ridiculous."

Q smirked. "I have an eidetic memory; I'm sure you can sympathize."

* * *

A few weeks later, Q entered his flat to find a body lying on the floor by his couch.

More specifically, he found a _dead_ body lying on the floor near his couch, one that had his throat slit _(not nearly enough blood; wasn't killed here)_ and ligature marks around his wrists _(coloring says that the man's been dead approximately five hours)_. Mid-forties, Chinese, short-cropped black hair, slightly overweight but not obese, near-sighted, obvious cause of death is obvious.

Purely on instinct and before Q was even consciously aware of his own movements, his gun was in his hand, not pointed at anything in particular but still at the ready, and looked around with narrowed eyes for any further signs of an intruder.

All of his instincts turned to be pointless, however, when Jim stepped out of his kitchen. His brother smiled and waved. "Hello, Q!"

The hacker looked at the criminal incredulously, his arms lowering slightly so he wasn't aiming for Jim's head, and said, "What the hell?"

Jim rose his eyebrows as if Q's response was completely unwarranted. Then he glanced down, spotting the dead man. His look of surprise seemed genuine, which then transitioned into slight chagrin. "Ah. I forgot he was here, actually. You have a _dreadfully_ small amount of food in your flat, by the way; I had Alec buy a bunch of groceries and bring them over, so you're all stocked up."

Q had many, _many_ questions. He decided to start with one that probably had the shortest answer. "You had a Double-Oh agentone of the most highly trained killers in the worldfetch me groceries?"

"Well, yes," Jim replied, as if it was the most obvious (and acceptable) answer in the world.

After an incredulous momentbecause _seriously what the hell, Jim_ Q sighed and put his gun down, clicking the safety back on, and then dropped his bag as well. "Yea, sure, perfectly logical. Alright, next question: why is there a dead man in my flat?"

Jim hummed. "Good question. I was wondering the same thing."

 _"Excuse_ me?" Q demanded. "Are you telling me you didn't bring it here?"

His brother giggled. "Ha! No, I killed him, but you should've seen your face!"

Q pursed his lips, his hands clenching at his sides, and let out a slow breath so he wouldn't deck Jim. "Alright. So you thought, _Hey, why don't I bring this murdered man over to my government agent brother's flat?"_

"Yup," Jim said, unconcerned, popping the  _P._ "This-" he nudged the body with his foot, "-is Jin. I'd tell him to say hello, but..."

"Jin as in the Black Lotus general's nephew? Jin Shan?" Q paused thoughtfully, and then rolled his eyes. "Do you just have a murder quota that you feel the need to meet? Jin Shan wasn't the slightest bit involved with his aunt's enterprises."

"No, but Shan angered me with her incompetence.  _You have my thanks,"_ he added in a perfect imitation of the woman's voice. He scoffed. "Gratitude is meaningless from the likes of her; it's only the expectation of further favors." He shook his head and kicked Jin's body again. "Sebastian killed her clean as instructed, but I found that lacking in satisfaction. So here we are, with a slit throat."

Then Jim began to pull his tie off, heading towards Q's bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower," he drawled. "Sebby should be here soon to dispose of Mr. Shan and deliver some take-out. See you in a few."

Sure enough, ten minutes later Sebastian knocked on Q's door, entering with Italian food and Earl Grey tea that was still steaming. Q took it from the colonel with a smile of gratitude and hummed in pleasure when he sipped it; it was perfect, which was to be expectedafter so many years knowing each other, Sebastian knew Q's tastes perfectly.

"Stay for dinner, 'Bastian," Q invited as the mercenary began expertly taking care of Jin Shan's body. "You definitely bought enough food."

But Sebastian shook his head, sending Q a roguish grin. "Thanks, but no; I've got myself some plans that  _don't_ involve you two sociopaths for once."

Q smirked. "Plans that will be taking place after you dispose of a body?"

The colonel just nodded, still smiling, completely ignoring Q's jibe. "Sounds like a great night to me. See you, Q; tell Jim I say not to kill anybody for the rest of the nightit would put a real damper on my evening." Then he put Jin's dismantled body into a bag and hauled it over his shoulder. With one last smile at Q, Sebastian headed towards the door and departed.

Not long after, Jim came shuffling back into the living room, bare-chested and wearing a pair of Q's pajama bottoms. Jim's muscles always caught Q by surprise, considering how skinny and short his brother was, but Jim' arms and chest showed clear signs of strength, his muscles defined but not bulky. He had a few scarsa knife wound here, a bullet wound therewhich on anyone else would've made the person appear imperfect, but Jim wore his like badges of honor, completely confident in his own skin.

"Sherlock Holmes is starting to be an even bigger problem than before," the elder Moriarty said as he threw himself down on the couch next to the younger. "The Black Lotus was a powerful organization and one of our most solid clients. I respected Shan; she ran a tight, strong ship. And now one loose end and she got unraveled by Sherlock. This isn't just a drug dealer here, a cabbie there anymore, Jamiethis was a whole organization Sherlock broke down. Our strongest client and now...nothing." He made a sound of disgust. "We need to do something."

Q looked at Jim levelly. "And what, precisely, do you mean by that? Because in the past, when it came to Sherlock Holmes..."

To the hacker's surprise, his brother nodded, not getting annoyed at Q pointing out the small not-quite-weak-spot he had about the detective. "He deserves something special," Jim murmured, his tone surprisingly serious at he stared thoughtfully at the wall. "But he needs to stop prying. And if he doesn't..." Jim turned his head, smiling at Q. It was a dark and manic thing, and Q couldn't help the way his heartbeat sped up excitedly at the oh so familiar expression. "Well, we'll just have to burn him, won't we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody catch my itty-bitty Reichenbach Falls quote? I probably would've missed it in someone else's fic. Well, probably not, but that's only because I have basically ALL of Jim's lines in the show memorized. I'm a smidge obsessed. I might've wondered if it was coincidental though. I'm rambling pointlessly, aren't I?
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this, and thanks for reading! Comments are always welcome!


	6. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft is a great partner, Q makes plans upon plans upon contingencies for the future, John makes his debut, and Jim meets the object of his obsessions.
> 
> OR: In which the author ships Qcroft, the author ships Johnlock, and the author actually has the entirety of the Pool Scene memorized and would gladly perform it for you (and everyone else) upon request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So according to http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/ Sherlock and John met on January 29th and ASIP happened on the 30th. Also according to it, TBB began on March 23rd. According to my own careful scrolling of the episode, it lasts five days, with the resolution of finding the jade pin and Shan being killed on the 6th day. The website also shares that March 28th is when Sherlock books a flight to Minsk, and TGG obviously follows right after.
> 
> The reason I tell you this, good readers, is because I seem to’ve deviated from that timeline a smidge. In this story, TBB is about a month after ASIP, and TGG (when it happens in the following chapter) is about two months after that (aka three months after ASIP). They all take the same amount of time to complete as in cannon, obviously. Have fun reading!

"We didn't celebrate your birthday," Mycroft said randomly, drawing Q's attention to him.

"No," Q replied with a small smile, turning the page in his book and not looking up, "we didn't."

Birthdays for Q and Jim had never been a big thing. They hadn't celebrated when they were kids because their parents didn't care about any of that stuff, and then they didn't celebrate when they were struggling to make something for themselves, and after that birthdays just symbolized another year they'd survived instead of being something to really make a big to-do about.

He wouldn't have pegged Mycroft as someone who enjoyed celebrating birthdays. It seemed a little...out of character. In an amusing, endearing way.

"You turned twenty-seven, James, that's something to celebrate," Mycroft replied in the tone of voice he always used when he was stating something that should be obvious yet wasn't to others for some reason.

"Mycroft, my birthday happened a month and a half ago while you were mostly hopped up on pain medication in the hospital, fresh off of being kidnapped by terrorists. It wasn't exactly a  _celebrating_ kind of time."

"But what about now?" his partner pressed. He could feel the older man looking at him from the other armchair, ignoring the files in his lap that he'd been so intently focused on just a few minutes ago. Q sighed, marked his page in his book, and rose his head to meet Mycroft's gaze. "Now all the danger has passed, we're both safe, both content, so why not celebrate your birthday together, for the first time?"

Q made a face, shrugging. "I've just never _celebrated_ my birthday before." Something twitched in Mycroft's expression, causing Q to have a realization and slowly say, "Which you already know. How?"

Mycroft grimaced. Something Q had found during their eight months together was that when it came to personal subjects, Mycroft _really_ hated calling Q out on whatever he'd deduced. Anything Q didn't _specifically_ tell him, Mycroft pretended as if he had absolutely no idea, complete with acting like he'd never figured it out. Stuff about Q's kidnapping years ago and his 'brother' were a couple of those such topics, and apparently this was as well.

"Tell me," Q asked, fully invested in the conversation now.

After a moment, Mycroft nodded. "Your father was abusive and your mother wasn't one to go out of her way to do something nice for you or your brother, so I'd assumed that because of this, you never celebrated your birthday as a child. Then your parents were killed and you spent time on the street, which was no place for parties of any kind. And then working as a hacker, all on your ownthere was no point to celebrating birthdays when all they were was proof that you'd survived another year. They might've also even been reminders of everything you didn't have."

As per usual when Mycroft made a  _(mostly)_ accurate deduction about him, Q was grudgingly impressed. And slightly taken aback.

"That just about sums it up," the hacker said, nodding absently.

Mycroft smiled slightly and stood up, walking over to Q. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss to his partner's lips and then said, "How about we go out for dinner tonight? Not a  _birthday_ celebration, but just a nice evening out."

Q's lips twitched; he knew exactly what the older man was doing, and it was incrediblyand unnecessarilysweet. He kissed his partner again. "Sounds like fun."

* * *

As Jim strode through the front door he said, "Molly Hooper is just about the most frustrating person to be in a fake relationship with."

Q rolled his eyes and straightened the pile of files on his coffee table, having just finished going through them for further discussion with Jim. "Why's that? All you have to do is bring up Sherlock and the two of you could  _gush_ for hours." Jim sent him a look. Q smirked. "You've literally gone on one date with her, brother dear; and it's not like Jim From IT is a permanent position."

Before Jim could rebuttle on this pointless topic of conversation, the hacker said, "I compiled a list of recent cases that it wouldn't really hurt us to let go." He pointed to the stack of files. "Each of them are solitary, small-time cases that giving up won't really affect our business. Since you insisted on using our own clients as your puzzles for Sherlock, I figured I'd try to minimize the damage."

Jim hummed, smiling, and picked up the top folder, casually flicking through the pages. "Ah! Ian Monkford, Janus Cars. Good choice." Then he snapped the file closed and dropped it back to the table. He was still smiling, his expression a little dreamy. "I want one of the puzzles to be the Vermeer. Golem, Wenceslas, you know the one."

Q stared at his brother in disbelief. Jim continued to smile. The hacker got to his feet. "Are you kidding me?" he asked incredulously, his voice raising. "Jim, that deal is worth _thirty_ _million pounds._ It's one of our most high-profile cases  _ever!_ Are you seriously going to tank it for some stupid puzzle?"

Jim just nodded, still fucking smiling. His complete lack of reaction to Q's anger was starting to really piss the hacker off. "It's going to make him so happy, don't you think? Being the only person in the world to figure out that such a famous painting is nothing more that a  _very_ good forgery. Other than Carl Powerswhich we'll use, tooI think this case will get him the most excited. Besides, it  _really_ shows our capabilities."

"No!" Q shouted, his anger reaching a peak. "You fucking  _moron!_ You know, these last few years I've put up with your obsession. I've listened to you talk about his cases and simultaneously praise and criticize how close he gets to our business and watched you read every entry Watson posts on his blog, but  _this?_ This is too far!  _Wake up,_ Jim! Sherlock Holmes is not going to join us or bow down to your _massive intellect._ You are giving yourself away to a fucking  _detective_ who would put you behind bars at his earliest opportunity! I bit my tongue when you said you wanted to give up  _our clients_ just for a couple of  _puzzles,_ but you know what? No more. We are not telling him about Carl Powers and we are not giving up such a gigantic deal. Actually, while we're at it, how about we give up  _zero_ deals? This is  _done."_

"We're doing this," Jim replied softly. He walked towards Q, reaching out to place a hand on the side of his little brother's neck. Q barred his teeth and jerked out of reach, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Jim sighed and slowly let his arm drop. "We're doing this," Jim said again.

"Why?" Q hissed. "This fucking obsession of yours is going to  _ruin_ us. And it's not just  _your_ organization, Jim, it's  _ours,_ which means you can't just decide to toss away a more than _thirty million quid deal_ by yourself!"

"We're doing this," Jim repeated once more, making Q want to  _punch_ him, "because we  _have_ to, Jamie. Because  _I_ have to."

The tone of his voice, so decided, so fierce. And a small hint of...desperation.

"You're right that he's not going to join us. But that's not the  _point._ The point is..."

"That you need him to see you," Q whispered, delfating. "That you need him to know the connection you share as well as  _you_ know it. That you need him to realize what he's truly gotten himself into. Need him to realize how easily he could've been  _you_ a consulting criminalinstead of a consulting detective if just a few things had gone differently. And then you need him to understand the consequences of continuing on the path he's on, what will happen if he doesn't stop prying."

The look on Jim's face was  _relieved._ When the criminal reached out again, Q let him pull him in close.

"Yes," Jim breathed, "yes. Exactly. Yes. Thank you."

Q hugged his brother tightly. "Alright," he said quietly. "Alright. Let's do this, then. We have a game to plan."

* * *

When Sherlock asked Qin his emotionally uncomfortable/constipated wayto come over to 221B and meet John Watson, the first thing out of Q's mouth was, "Well it's about time," to which the hacker could hear the detective sputtering at indignantly over the line.

It had been about two months since Jeff Hope, since Sherlock had found someone he truly connected with, since an army doctor had killed a man to save a consulting detective. Q had been watching the pair on various CCTV cameras throughout those months to keep an eye on them but he'd yet to actually  _meet_ the man Sherlock couldn't stop talking about, and considering how close the two geniuses were, this meeting was overdue.

"What is it with you Holmes men and trying to hide your relationships?" Q asked in exasperation when Sherlock opened the door. Q had a key, of courseboth the one he'd had made long ago  _and_ the one Sherlock had given himbut he figured since he was coming over as a guest to meet someone important to Sherlock he should follow proper social protocol instead of just heading up.

The detective rolled his eyes, taking Q's coat and hanging it up in a surprising move of politeness. He began heading up the stairs and said, "Oh, shut up. You knew full well about John." Then he paused, his foot dangling in the air for a moment, before resuming his measured walk. "And John and I aren't in a  _relationship,_ anyway."

It was Q's turn to roll his eyeshonestly the pair were so far gone over each other it wasn't even funnybut he didn't say anything to refute the claim. If John didn't end up murdered in Jim's game then Q was going to have to sit the flatmates down and  _tell them_ how much they loved each other, because it was bloody annoying to have to listen to Sherlock wax poetic (in his Sherlock way) about the doctor whenever he and Q saw each other.

When they reached the top of the stairs, the detective hesitated for the barest of split seconds  _(nervous, how sweet)_ before pushing the apartment door open and striding in. He threw himself down into his armchair, a bored expression on his face as he drawled, "Well, go on. Meet each other."

 _Wow,_ Q thought.  _That man is_ desperate _to keep his feelings and emotions hidden._

Turning his attention away from the child pretending to be an adult, Q saw the doctor himself, standing in the entryway to the kitchen. He was wearing a scratchy-looking beige jumper and a pair of regular blue jeans. His smile was friendly and genuine, but there was a nervous edge to it that Q didn't understand. When the man's eyes flicked briefly to Sherlock and then back to Q, the hacker understood.

Sherlock didn't give a crap about Mycroft's opinion. At least, not enough to put  _any_ stake into whether or not the elder Holmes approved of the people he kept company with. But Q, Q was Sherlock's  _friend._ Q's opinion  _meant_ something to the detective, and thus it meant something to John. That realization left Q feeling oddly... _warm._ A genuine smile came to his face.

The hacker offered his hand to the doctor, taking a step forward. "Hello, Dr. Watson; it's very nice to finally meet you. Sherlock's told me a lot about you." Out of the corner of his eye, Q saw Sherlock send him a brief sharp look. John, oblivious to it, raised an eyebrow, his smile growing slightly.

"Good things, yea? Not just that I'm an idiot?"

Q laughed, both because it was the appropriate response and because the idea of Sherlock Holmes saying anything  _bad_ about John Watson was utterly ridiculous, and nodded congenially. "Good things, yes. Though he  _did_ mention a row with a machine..."

John's jaw dropped open and he looked at Sherlock, aghast, who was smiling now, his eyes alight with amusement. "You tosser!" the doctor exclaimed, but he was laughing. From the way the pair were looking at each other, Q felt it would be very fitting to begin chanting _'_ _Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!'_

After a moment John looked back at Q, shaking his head. His shoulders had completely relaxed and his smile was perfectly at ease; one look at Sherlock and the doctor had lost all his tension. "He's told me good things about you, too. And by that I mean he didn't rant about how stupid you are, or sneer when you were mentioned. So in my book that means you must be Jesus."

Q smiled crookedly. "If you can only have one goal in life, Dr. Watson, make it to be not sneered about by Sherlock Holmes." John snorted and Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the detective looked pleased nonetheless. Q glanced around and grabbed the desk chair, pulling it over to sit by the two armchairs.

"Call me John," the doctor told him. Q inclined his head. "Would you like tea?" he asked as he headed for the kitchen.

"Black, two sugars," Sherlock said simultaneously to Q's, "Earl grey, if you have it." The hacker quirked a smile at the detective and got an eyeroll in return, but it was clearly an amused motion.

"So, why did Sherlock tell me you're called Q? I mean, he said something about your identity being classifiedwhich, alright, is a little creepybut I feel like secret agents could have better codenames than  _letters."_

Q shot Sherlock an exasperated, faintly annoyed look when John wasn't looking. He couldn't claim to be  _surprised_ that Sherlock had told John about MI6even though the detective  _knew_ that he wasn't supposed tobut telling John to call the hacker  _Q_ was a stupid and unnecessary attempt at teasing. And going by the amused smirk on Sherlock's face, the detective was ok with it.

Withholding a sigh, Q laughed to John and shook his head. "I'm not a secret agent." _Just a double one,_ he thought wryly. "I'm an  _engineer_ I build things. I don't have a classified identity, or any strange codename; my name's Ronan Blake."

It was, at least, for as long as Q held the title  _R._ He had a full fake ID and passport and everything. Just like Sherlock knew he wasn't supposed to talk about MI6, he knew the name  _Ronan Blake,_ and he  _could've_ told John it instead of saying to call him  _Q._ The hacker supposed he should just be glad that Sherlock hadn't shared his 'real' name, since he was sure the detective knew it.

John reentered the living room, passing both Q and Sherlock their cups of tea and then settling into his own armchair. "Uh huh," the doctor said, sending Q an unimpressed look. "So you're just an engineer that happens to work for MI6 in the way that Mycroft just occupies a minor position in the British government?"

Q blinked. Sherlock laughed, delighted. John smiled a tad smugly, sipping his tea.

"Well," Q said after a moment, leaning back in his chair, "I can see why Sherlock likes you." The doctor's smile softened slightly, clearly pleased. "I'm glad we're finally meeting, John; Sherlock spoke well of you, which he really  _never_ does, so I was enormously curious about you."

"Well you know what they say," John joked, "curiosity killed the cat."

"And satisfaction brought him back," Q returned, raising his cup in a salute.

The doctor laughed, surprised, and Sherlock rose an eyebrow. "There's a second part to that phrase?" John asked amusedly, still smiling. "I've never heard anyone say that before!"

Q shrugged. "I'm not sure; it's just something my-" _brother_ "-mother used to say, when I was little." He tilted his head. "Come to think of it, I haven't heard anyone say it either. Maybe it was just a _my family_ thing."

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock drawled. "It is very  _rarely_ used, but it originated in America in 1912 in the  _Titusville Herald-"_

"Give me your phone," Q said in exasperation, sticking out a hand. "You did  _not_ just have that random fact in your head, I don't believe it for a second. You hid your phone behind your crossed legs and looked up the origin of the continued phrase."

Sherlock glared at him but still passed the phone over with a few muttered curses, annoyed at having been called out. Q could see John hiding a grin behind his cup.

The rest of the meeting went very well. Q asked a few polite questions about John's practice, asked for more details on their most recent case and the one they were currently working on, and answered most of John's own benign questions. A few times the doctor asked things that were purposefully poking into MI6 business, and Q began replying with exceedingly ridiculous responses, smiling all the while, glad that John looked amused by it all, not annoyed.

At one point, when Sherlock had gone off to the bathroom, Q looked at John with a soft smile and said, "He makes you feel alive again, doesn't he? Like the war in Afghanistanyou missed it. And when you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see war in the very streets of London. Welcome back to battle, John."

The doctor blinked at him, eyes slightly wide, looking like he was experiencing Deja vu. He laughed a little awkwardly. "Mycroft tell you what he said, or are you guys really just that similar?"

 _Ah._ That made sense. Mycroft must've said something similar when he abducted John about two months ago. Q's lips quirked in amusement; it was always funny to have his similarities to his partner pointed out.

"We tend to see the world the same way," Q confirmed, nodding. "Just so you know, John," Q added after a moment, "he's more alive with you, too."

They dropped the subject as Sherlock swept back into the room, throwing himself back down into his armchair, but John still looked thoughtful, looking at Sherlock like he was coming to a small realization. Q hoped that whatever it was would take the two clueless idiots in the right direction.

* * *

The next few weeks passed in almost a haze for Q, simply because so much was going on.

There was perfecting the organization of each "puzzle" in the coming game, and making sure Molly Hooper stayed on the hook just strongly enough, and running various MI6 missions, and spending time with Mycroft, and making plans for the future because while _Jim_ might've been throwing caution to the wind and hitching his horse to Sherlock's wagon, Q would do no such thing.

He would be  _prepared_ for the future. He would make sure that he and Jim actually  _had_ a future, one not involving death or prison.

And then suddenly the planned start date for the Game was upon them.

Sebastian planted the strong box across from 221B with the bomb and then hid Powers' shoes in 221c before taking off to track their first hostage. Jim had chosen the four people they were going to strap bombs to with delicate care; he wanted to take them from all over England to show how simple it was for them to be anywhere at any time. Q could appreciate that; in fact he rather approved, and Sebastian and Alec easily kept watch of the four future-hostages so that grabbing them when the time came would be quick and easy.

"Ready?" Q asked his brother quietly as night fell.

Jim looked up at him, expression perfectly serious, then grinned and said,  _"Boom."_ He pressed the trigger.

Q waited a few hours until he got an alert on his phone about an explosion at Baker Street _still being investigated but cause thought to be a gas leak_ and then called Sherlock.

"Hey," he said quickly when the detective picked up, "are you alright? The cameras show that 221 was damaged in the explosion." In front of Q, Jim paced back and forth in a sharp line, his eyes fixed on something in his own mind, but he flashed Q a quick smirk at the put-upon concerned voice.

 _"Yes, yes, I'm fine,"_ Sherlock snapped. Q could picture him rolling his eyes.  _"Why are you awake, R? It's three in the morning."_

"You should know by now that's a pointless question," Q drawled in return. "I wouldn't ask  _you_ that."

Sherlock snorted, amused.  _"Use this opportunity to tell my brother that the scary gas hasn't harmed me and he doesn't need to phone me again."_

Jim grinned and Q mirrored the gesture. No, Mycroft wasn't calling Sherlock over the explosion; he was calling because the Bruce-Partington Missile Plans memory stick had gone missing and Andrew 'Westie' West was dead and Mycroft knew his brother was the best person (and the one most likely) to track down the missing plans and capture the thief. The timing of it was pretty spectacular, really, having happened  _just_ when the game was beginning.

"I doubt he's calling about the gas leak," Q said carefully, "and don't be surprised if he shows up at your flat in a few hours."

The detective made a sound of distaste, said,  _"Thanks for the chat,"_ and hung up.

* * *

After the fake pink phone was found, after Sherlock discovered the shoes, after Jim sat with elated eyes and typed messages for the crying woman to say to Sherlock,  _that_ was when the detective called Q.

Jim wasn't there when the hacker's phone rang; he was at St. Bart's, dressed as the gay IT worker, ready to finally meet Sherlock. Q was kind of relieved not to have his brother in the room with him anymore. After spending months and months in the company of the Holmes brothers the novelty of it had worn off, but Jim had been fantasizing about them for  _years,_ and he was about to encounter the object of his obsessions for the first time. As such, he was  _impossible_ to be around.

"Hey, Sherlock," Q said, slightly distracted. While the detective was working out the first puzzle, Mycroft was at work, and Jim was playing a role, Q had been working more on _his_ plan, the one Jim still didn't know about, the one he was putting together to make sure they'd be alright after everything went down. He didn't trust Jim to not be consumed by this  _thing_ with Sherlock, which meant Q had to  _ensure_ that they came out ok in the end.

 _"Do you remember when I told you about the cabbie?"_ the detective asked, voice low.

"Of course," Q replied. He pulled up his camera system on his laptop, grabbing the feed for Sherlock's lab at Bart's. The younger Holmes was sitting in his usual spot, staring absently at a screen that was running through various tests. "What about him?"

 _"He gave me a name. His sponsor. My...fan. I think maybe..."_ On screen, Sherlock shook his head distractedly.

"What's going on?" Q asked, a touch of concern in his voice.

A smile flashed across Sherlock's face.  _"I doubt you know_ nothing, _R; you've shown in the past that you keep something of a distant eye on my activities. And today has been..."_ He shook his head again.  _"No matter. This bomber, the one currently using a hostage just so they can speak to meI think it's that person._ _My_ fan. _It feels..."_ A smile, absent and elated, slid onto the detective's features.  _"They're bored, just like me. And they're_ reaching out, _R. It's...well. It's something."_

Q had a feeling Sherlock was more talking to himself but using Q as a sounding board since he knew the hacker wouldn't tell anyone what he said, and true to what the detective wanted, Q stayed silent, just letting him speak. Besides, the younger Moriarty was still stuck on one giant thing: Sherlock sounded like Jim.

The tone of his voice, the almost-manic, lost-in-thought smile, the distant yet sharp eyesthis was exactly how Jim got when Sherlock came into conversation. For the first time ever, Sherlock was experiencing what Jim had  _countless_ times before, and just like with his brother, Q got to see it unfold. It was a...strangely  _intimate_ moment.

"Don't lose your head," Q said quietly, suddenly, the words spilling out of him. "Play the game, solve the puzzles, do what you have to do, Sherlock. I won't try to tell you to slow down, or some other nonsense. But don't lose your head, alright? You're  _smart._ Don't let your excitement get the better of you."

Sherlock's eyes focused some, his smile fading into a serious expression. He nodded slowly, though he didn't know Q could see him.  _"I understand. I'll talk to you later, R."_

"Goodbye, Sherlock. And would you just look into the Bruce-Partington plans? You're such a child, I swear."

A grin broke out across the detective's face.  _"Who am I to deny Queen and Country?"_ he teased, and then hung up.

* * *

When Jim got home, hand running through his slicked hair in an attempt to correct it, bright green underwear still showing, he couldn't stop grinning, his eyes bright and vaguely manic. He took a quick shower, getting rid of  _Jim From IT,_ and when he reentered the living room he once again looked like himself.

"How'd it go?" Q asked, raising an eyebrow.

His brother had a sound of pure delight. "It was marvelous!" he crowed.  _"He_ was marvelous. Jesus; so disdainful, so annoyed, so  _above_ everyone else..." he shook his head excitedly, grin not fading a centimeter. "I gave him my number." Q rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips, and Jim batted his eyelashes in mock shyness. "Maybe he'll _call."_

"Well, he's realized the Carl Powers connection," Q told him, nodding towards his laptop. "He and John are heading back to Baker Street as we speak. All he has to do is figure out  _how_ the murder took place, and with those eczema shoelaces it's only a matter of time before one of his tests gives him the correct result. A couple more hours, I'd say."

"Great!" Jim chirped, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Seb's waiting on our signal to either shoot or leave and Alec is ready to grab the next guy on our list. I think this is going swell! Do you think he's having fun? I think he's having fun. He looked like he was enjoying himself."

Q's lips quirked upward at the slightly  _earnest_ note to his brother's voice.

"He needs to enjoy himself, Jamie," Jim continued, tone not changing. "Before, you know, everything crumbles around him and he dies, of course."

The hacker couldn't help himselfa laugh burst out of him at the innocent, sincere look on Jim's face as he spoke about destroying and killing someone. In response, his big brother grinned and winked.

"Oh!" the elder Moriarty said suddenly, reaching into his pocket for his phone as he strode over to where Q sat on the couch. "I got a very _peculiar_ email a little bit ago from an address I don't recognize. It's just lines of code, and that's more  _your_ thing than  _mine,_ soooo...."

Q held out his hand and caught the phone deftly from the air when Jim tossed it. He looked at the email, brow furrowing, and examining the lines of computer code. "How did this get through?" Q wondered aloud, talking to himself. "No one should've been able to..."

Distantly he heard Jim say something but he was focused now on a puzzle of his own. He plugged Jim's phone into his laptop, running a quick diagnostic for any possible viruses, and then got to work figuring out where the email had come from and what the meaning of it was.

The coding was very impressive. It was a message, Q could tell that immediately, but it was intricate and heavily masked behind various walls and codes. Whoever had sent it was using it not only as a way of reaching out for their services, but as a  _test_ as well, to see if they were good enough. It was the kind of thing Jim would do, actually. It was also vaguely irritating.

Q was most of the way through cracking the emailwhoever had sent it was _good_ when Jim's computer made a noise alerting them to the fact that Sherlock had posted something on his website. Jim laughed excitedly and then called the detective, so Q quickly realized that Puzzle Number One had been solved.

"Marvelous!" Jim called, throwing himself down into one of Q's armchairs. The hacker hummed in agreementit had all gone pretty brilliantly, hadn't it?but didn't look up from his computer, too focused on the challenge he himself now had.

"You're still working on that?" the elder Moriarty asked curiously. "It's been almost three hours; you're  _slipping,_ baby brother."

Q shot Jim a glare. "Whoever sent this is  _skilled,_ Jim, incredibly so. The encryptions are top-notch and very volatileparts of the message begin to collapse when you start going about decoding it a certain way. It's remarkable. It's _also_ a very fine line to walk to figure it out. I have most of it done, but I refuse to rush this, or we'll lose our ability to figure out who sent it in the first place."

"Interesting," Jim hummed. "Looks like someone else has decided that now's a nice time to play some games!"

"Well whoever they are, their intention is to hire us," Q said, frowning down at the message that was slowly becoming clear. "I don't know how they found your email or managed to actually  _send_ this masterpiece of coding, but they did so not with malicious intent. At least, I'm pretty sure."

"I'll take _you_ being  _'pretty sure'_ over anyone _else_ being completely positive any day," Jim replied with a grin, causing Q to roll his eyes.

"Thanks," he said wryly. "I have auto programs running to track down the source, but that part might take a while. With this right now, it's just a waiting game."

"The worst kind," Jim sighed dramatically, pulling a smile to Q's face.

* * *

The next two puzzles with Sherlock went well, Jim phoning a few extra times out of excitement or impatience or a whole number of things. At one point during the Connie Prince case Jim looked up from his phone and smiled brilliantly before murmuring, "He's already solved it. But he's waiting, using the extra time...Oh,  _excellent."_

Then came the puzzle of the lost Vermeer, which hurt Q on a very deep level. Thirty million fucking quid just  _gone_ because Jim wanted to make Sherlock happy. It was  _painful,_ sending the photo of the place where the dead security guard was to the pink phone. Q grumbled the entire time, during which Jim intelligently stayed silent.

 _Thirty million pounds._ Holy hell.

Alec kept watch over the kid as Sherlock and John flitted about, trying to track down the Golem and prove the painting was a fake. Q hoped that the Golem got away; when it came to assassins the hacker most definitely preferred using Sebastian or Alec, but the unique style of the Czech killer was always interesting to see and it would be too bad if the guy was captured because of all of this.

In the end, Golem killed Professor Cairns, almost killed Sherlock _that_ would've been awfuland then managed to get away, living to kill another day. Jim called Sherlock when the detective was back at the gallery, not saying anything while he waited for Sherlock to give him the desired answer.

 _"Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"_ Sherlock asked over the phone.

Jim rose an eyebrow at Q, and in response the younger Moriarty quirked a smile. Jim typed  _10_ and the little boy voiced it, causing DI Lestrade to curse and Sherlock to hurriedly try to figure out what was wrong with the Vermeer. Finally, the detective began rambling excitedly and as they hit _2_ Q was ready to send the go ahead to SebastianSherlock exclaimed,  _"The Van Buren Supernova!"_

"Thirty million quid," Q moaned, shaking his head. Jim grinned and gave the kid freedom of speech again before ending the call.

 _"Relaaaaax,_ brother dear," Jim cooed. "It's all done now. And it's almost time for the main event! Gotta pick up the good doctor."

The pair had Sebastian follow Sherlock and John as they used the quiet period to go wrap up the case Mycroft had given them the morning everything began. They got the memory stick with the missile plans and headed back to 221b. Soon after John left again, heading down the street.

"Perfect," Q hummed, pleased, looking at the CCTV feed outside their door. "I'll tell Sebastian to move in-" just then, Jim's laptop made a noise, drawing bother brothers' attention to it.

"Sherlock posted something," Jim said in surprise, moving over to look at what it was. A startled laugh bubbled up and out. "Oh,  _bad boy,_ Mr. Holmes!" he crowed.

"What?" Q asked, sitting up. "What is it?"

Jim read off the screen;  _"'Found: The Bruce-Partington Plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.'_ What a naughty boy."

Q stared, gobsmacked. "I-" he didn't know what to say, and got to his feet. "Did he seriously-" the hacker couldn't even finish.

His brother grinned. "Sherlock Holmes stole a government memory stick containing missile defense plans and now is offering it to a terrorist at the site of a twenty-year-old child homicide. This day just keeps getting  _better!_ Alrightchange of plans; if this is how Sherlock wants to do it, we can most _certainly_ oblige..."

* * *

In the few hours before midnight, Q called in their organization's five best marksmen. Sebastian rolled his eyes at him  _(six snipers, R? Really?)_ but as always easily fell in line, going where Q and Jim told him to be and taking position as lead shot.

They kept John handcuffed and tied up in a small locker room, secured in place by Sebastian's good work. Q stayed far away from that area, not wanting to risk being spotted by the doctor, and right before midnight the hacker did one last check on everyone being where they were supposed to be. Then, as Sherlock arrived, Q made his way up to the balcony and sat near the center so he could see everything, gazing through the scope of a gun he knew he wouldn't have to fire.

The entire meeting was like a dance, or an artful fight, both geniuses jabbing and pulling and pushing, both looking like Christmas had come early. The introduction of John into the meeting had thrown Sherlock a little, clearly making his anxiety higher than it would've been in this situation before, but he still engaged with Jim in exactly the way Q knew his brother wanted.

When John grabbed onto Jim, pulling the criminal tightly against the Semtex vest, Q's pulse sped up but he kept himself calm. "Steady Sniper One, don't accidently kill your boss. Sniper Two on my command." A few moments later Jim yelled  _'Oops!'_ , a clear signal, and Q murmured, "Sniper Two, light on Sherlock's forehead."

After a few tense moments John let go of Jim, making Q let out a quiet breath of relief, and the meeting wrapped up quickly after that.

"Alright guys," Q said, straightening up and rolling his shoulders. "Stay in position, make sure they don't get any bright ideas about trying to follow Jim, and then we can-"

 _"Lights up!"_ Jim breathed into the comm all of the snipers and Q were wearing. Obediently the six marksmen turned on their lazer pointers and aimed, three on John and three on Sherlock.

Q leaned forward anxiously, his eyes wide, as Jim strode back into the pool room, talking about being unable to let them live. The hacker was floored, shocked by the sudden shift in desires  _(changeable is right),_ and felt his chest tighten when Sherlock aimed for the Semtex vest in response to the threat on his life.

"Leave, Jim," Q whispered, even though his brother couldn't hear him. "Come on, fuck your pride, leave. Don't do this, don't call the bluff." Jim didn't move. Q snapped, "Dammit. Sebastian, get ready to take Sherlock out the  _moment_ his aim on the vest wavers. I'm not taking a goddamn chance."

 _"Yessir,"_ Moran replied, and Q saw the sniper adjust his grip on his gun slightly.

Then Jim's phone rang,  _Staying Alive_ echoing out. Nobody moved. Q stared at his brother. Jim sighed in exasperation. "Do you mind if I get that?" the criminal asked the detective, annoyed.

"No, no, please," Sherlock drawled in response, his body twitching as he fought to hide his anxiety, "you've got the rest of your life."

Q was in a constant state of tenseness during the phone call. He didn't know who it was, but whoever had called clearly had captured Jim's attention enough that he'd been distracted from  _Sherlock._ Something good was coming their way, apparently.

Jim lowered the phone from his ear and stared down at the Semtex vest almost thoughtfully. "What are you thinking, Jim?" Q whispered just as Jim said, "Sorry. Wrong day to die." Q let out a breath and leaned back on his heels as his brother strode from the room, saying a threat to the person on the phone and snapping his fingers as a command to the snipers, who immediately turned off their lazer pointers.

"Lets get out of here," Q said on a sigh, heading for the door. The marksmen filed out behind him.

A few minutes later the hacker climbed into their car where Jim was already waiting in the backseat, frowning out the window thoughtfully and twirling his phone.

"Well?" Q asked his brother. Sebastian got into the driver's seat and started the car, pulling them away from the pool.

"Did you give Irene Adler my phone number?" Jim asked lowly, his expression still serious as he watched the city fly by.

Q frowned. "What? Yes, I did. Was that her? Did she have something for us?" Jim didn't say anything. "...Jim?"

Suddenly his brother turned to look at him, a wide grin splitting his face. He darted forward and gave Q an exaggerated kiss on the forehead, pulling a startled laugh from the younger Moriarty.

"Pictures!" Jim exclaimed as he did it again, hugging Q tightly, making the hacker squirm with a breathy chuckle. "The Woman has photographs of Young Miss Royal in an array of _compromising positions_ with the dominatrix truly. God, how  _gorgeous_ is that? She took pictures!"

He laughed, and his joy was infectious, making Q grin in response. "I told her to call if she ever had something of valuelooks like she found something."

Just then Q's phone  _dinged,_ and he shoved his brother off of him to fish it out of his pocket. It was an alert from the program he'd set up to track the source of the email earlierthere was a definitive IP address. Q smiled.

"Looks like I have a case for us, too," he said, showing Jim the screen of his phone. "I found our mysterious emailer."

Jim beamed. "Looks like Christmas has come early! Sebastian, take us home! We've got some work to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I have two ideas for a BIG future plot point. They both end up at the same place, it's just two ways of GETTING to said place. I am, obviously, not going to tell you details. But I can't pick! So, dear readers, please choose option "Picture" or option "Quote". Yes, I gave the possible plotlines codenames. Because I can't choose and I'm a nerd!!
> 
> Once again, hope you enjoyed!


	7. The Interim and the Scandal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q gets a lot done, Mycroft is a good boyfriend, and Sherlock is distracted by a powerful woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter took a long time to come out because LIFE and because originally this was gonna be Skyfall, but that's 2 years after season 1 of Sherlock, which meant I was covering a LOT of ground very quickly and thus leaving a lot of stuff out I'd rather include. It was feeling too rushed. I had to stop and rework it into two chapters (and scrap a lot of it) so that I wasn't speeding through things that needed attention, ya know? All that said, these next two chapters are covering about a year each (this chapter starts May 2010 and ends July 2011), so I'll try to make the time jumps clear in the story like I (hopefully) have in the past.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Q very much did not like Raoul Silva.

The man was highly charismatic, cunning, manipulative, and most certainly the definition of a megalomaniac. He relied heavily on sexual innuendo and playful banter but all of it so clearly concealed a far darker, crueler, more cynical motivation that revealed itself in the slightly manic shine of his eyes. He was bombastic, exhibited a flair for the dramatic, and had a dark sense of humor he bracketed with light jokes to distract or confuse.

All of which could be used to describe  _Jim,_ as well, which made Q hate Silva even more.

Because while Jim's personality was familiar, Silva took those familiar traits and  _twisted_ them into something that made his skin crawl. Even being in the same _room_ as Tiago Rodriguez made Q itch to draw a gun.

"Clever boy," the cyberterrorist in question cooed, leaning over Q's shoulder as he watched what the younger hacker was doing on the laptop in front of him. Q clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to tense and pull away. "Failsafe protocols that will wipe the memory if there's any attempt to access certain files...Oof! Gorgeous." Q could feel his slick grin. "Who taught you to make these?"

"I invented them," Q replied shortly. He felt the puffs of Silva's breath in the shell of his ear as the elder man chuckled.

"I know, I know," Silva murmured. "You've just been so  _quiet,_ bonito; I wanted a hint of that  _fire_ in you to grace me with its presence."

Q hated that he'd told Jim he'd do this meeting alone. Typically he and his brother didn't directly meet with clients, using means that would never result in a face-to-face so no one could identify them if later questioned. But this time their client was a talented cybercriminal and required the services of  _another_ talented hacker, which was hard work to do when you had to wait for the back and forth of an email, or even over the phone.

And so there Q was, alone in a room with the vile man two months after receiving the coded email from him, using his Oliver James alias because as of yet the criminal underworld was unaware that the infamous  _Moriarty_ was actually a pair of brothers. Alone, a gun in the small of his back and two knives in his boots, and Raoul Silva standing far, _far_ too close.

"It's done," Q said, unable to keep the terseness out of his voice. His skin was crawling. Pulling his knife was starting to feel awfully tempting. "Here." He pushed the laptop to the side, giving Silva better access, and after a few moments the elder man smoothly moved away to sit down at the table next to Q instead of leaning over the young hacker.

 _"Ooh,_ very good, bonito," Silva purred, his eyes moving over the computer screen as he read. They flicked up to look at Q again, a slick smile growing on his face. "It's always the young, pretty ones, yes? You'll take over the world if we're not careful."

"Already in the process," Q told him dryly, getting to his feet. Silva let out an amused laugh and Q began collecting his things, packing them into his bag. "Mr. Moriarty will expect the second half of payment wired by the time I return to report that the job is done; don't be an idiot and try to cheat him. It won't work out so well for you."

"Before you go," Silva said, sliding to his feet as well, "I have a small _proposition_ for your employer, bonito."

That nickname was really starting to grate on Q's nerves. "And what would that be?"

Silva tilted his head and dragged his eyes up and down Q's body suggestively, taking a few steps closer until he was less than two feet away. In his pockets the young hacker dug his nails into his palms to suppress the instinct to back away and draw his gun to empty the clip into the vile, _vile_ man.

When Silva met his gaze again, his smile was knowing. Then he said, "I have in my possession the location of a group of people who are currently plotting the downfall of Mr. Moriarty. Quite the nasty little crew, really."

Q rose an eyebrow, uncaring. "I don't hear a _proposition,_ Mr. Silva."

The cyberterrorist looked delighted by this response, and took a few more steps closer until he was right in front of Q, close enough for the younger man to feel the elder's body heat. Q refused to back away, despite how  _badly_ he wanted to. Other than his brother or Mycroft for periods of time, people being this close to him made him severely uncomfortable, especially when they were people like  _this._

Silva's smile grew. "Fair point, bonito, fair point. Alright; if Mr. Moriarty were interested in this information, I would be willing to sell it to him. This could also be the beginning of a, ah,  _beautiful_ friendship between us, no?"

The elder man reached forward, stroking his hand against Q's neck in an intimate gesture. It was, apparently, more than Q could handle; he'd been on edge throughout the entire meeting with Silva's suggestive language and his like of being far too close to Q, but now that he'd actually made contact, now that his calloused fingers were stroking down his neck and making their way across his collarbone and undoing the top button of his shirt, Q snapped.

He reached behind his back and drew his handgun from where it was tucked in the small of his back. Whipping it around to the front, he shoved the gun between himself and Silva, pressing the muzzle firmly against the underside of the elder man's chin and cocking it.

"Get your hands off of me," Q said calmly, tilting his head. For a few moments Silva didn't move away, his fingers still tracing delicate _(disgusting)_ patterns over Q's skin.

"You have a scar," Silva murmured, his eyes sliding down from Q's and to the small patch of newly exposed skin thanks to his top button being undone. "Electrical burn, no? Exposed wires, if I'm not mistaken. You've been tortured. I have too." His voice was a low murmur, his touch gentle.

"How nice for you," Q replied, his calm now forced. He shoved the gun more firmly up against Silva's chin, forcing the elder man to tilt his head far up. "Now _get your hands off of me."_

With a breathy chuckle Silva did as instructed, putting his hands up in surrender and taking a couple steps backwards. "Mm, mm, mm _fire_ indeed. It was a _pleasure_ doing business with you, Oliver. See you next time." He winked and slowly sat down, all of his moves exaggeratedly telegraphed.

As Q left he could feel the elder man's eyes fixated on him.

* * *

"I'm so sorry I'm late," Q rushed to say, pulling off his coat and draping it over the back of his chair as he sat down. "Double-Oh-Nine decided that _now_ would be a good time to completely cock up her undercover mission and so I had to make sure she got out of there ok, and then Jesse in Q-branch blew up this device he'd been working on, which of course then took _forever_ to clean uphonestly can't anyone practice proper safety?and  _then-"_

"James," Mycroft interrupted, his expression pure amusement, "you're not late."

Q blinked, glanced down at his watch, and then looked back at Mycroft. "I'm not?" he asked dumbly.

His partner shook his head, still looking amused. "No. Well, technically,  _yes,_ you are, by about half an hour. But I knew you were in the middle of running a mission today so lateness was likely, but I still wanted us to be able to enjoy an evening. So I told you an earlier time than I was planning on us having dinner." He patted his jacket pocket. "I brought a book while I waited."

For a moment, all Q could do was gape. Then he laughed. "Clever! Sneaky and probably vaguely insulting, but still clever! I should remember that tactic to use against  _you_ in the future."

Mycroft just smiled and then reached across the table. Q didn't hesitate to reach out as well, and rolled his eyes fondly when Mycroft kissed his knuckles. "It's good to see you," Q said sincerely, squeezing Mycroft's hand before pulling back and picking up the menu on his plate. "It's been about a week."

A very  _eventful_ week, at least for Q. He met with Raoul Silva for the first time, he invented a new palm scanner for firearms, he took care of a plot against his brother, and he got Alec Trevelyan in trouble with M by making it seem like 006 had been using MI6 mission time to stalk his ex (Q was good at what he did, and so the problem that Trevelyan created months ago was gone, and James Bond was no longer looking into irregularities).

But during all of that, he hadn't had a chance to actually see his partner, and thus this dinner was very much wanted and needed. Plus, it was the one year anniversary of them getting together, so there was that.

"It's good to see you too, James," Mycroft said warmly and then flagged down a waitress. Q hadn't had a chance to look at the menu yet, but that didn't much matter; Mycroft had looked it over, and they'd been together for a year at this pointthe elder man knew what he liked, and Q smiled as Mycroft easily rattled off both of their orders to the waitress before turning back to his younger partner.

Then, after a moment of comfortable silence, Mycroft placed a small, velvet box on the table.

Q blinked. Then again. He opened his mouth, most likely to say something, but he had no idea what, so he closed his mouth again. He continued to stare down at the box. Finally he got out, "Um. My?"

"I'm not proposing," Mycroft said promptly, his tone relaxed and not forced.

"You're...not proposing," Q parroted back, finally looking up from the box and to his partner.

Mycroft shook his head, a very faint smile on his lips. "No, I'm not. I _do,_ actually, know you, James; if I proposed right now you would not desire to say yes-" Q opened his mouth on instinct but Mycroft held up a hand, "-and that is  _not_ to say that you do not love me as much as I love you, because I know you do, but marriage and moving in...well, it's simply something you are not quite ready to commit to yet. And that's alright, _perfectly_ alright; I have no desire to push for more than you wish to give."

Like a million times before, Q was momentarily struck by the fact that this man that was somehow his, this man that though not seeing all of him still  _saw_ him. This brilliant, kind, loving, brilliant,  _perfect_ man was  _his._

And all of a sudden, Q was hit by the desire to come clean, to tell Mycroft  _everything,_ to accept the unspoken proposal and have this life that was his to take if he only were to reach out and  _take_ it. It would be so easy; he could simply say _Mycroft, I need you to know that I love you so much, but I have been lying about who I am. Your brother is in danger,_ you _might_ _be in_ _danger, and I want to_ _be with you so let me make this shit show right._

Q opened his mouth and said, "So what is the box about?"

"It's empty," Mycroft said, which was not  _really_ an answer to Q's question, and then continued with, "I do not have a ring purchased, because like I said I am not proposing. But this empty ring box is something I want you to take, and keep, because it is a symbol of the endless possibilities that lay before us, whatever you might wish."

_Jim Moriarty is my brother. I started this relationship with you because it was a smart move strategically, but I swear to every god I don't believe in that I love you. Sherlock is in trouble; I know how to protect him. Please don't look at me differently, I want to be with you._

Q opened his mouth and said, "I like endless possibilities," and then picked up the box, putting it in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, right over his divided heart.

* * *

Jim, upon Q entering his flat _the hacker had stopped being surprised at finding his brother just waiting in his apartment when he arrived home a long time ago_ said, "I need you to talk me out of murdering Tiago Rodriguez."

"...Why?" Q asked in response, because seriously,  _Why?_ The cyberterrorist was slimy and gross and Q most certainly  _did not like him,_ so why, if Jim was contemplating murdering said cyberterrorist, would Q put up an argument to that?

His brother looked at him in exasperation.  _"Becaaauuussee,_ Q, despite how Rodriguez pushes all the wrong buttons with me simply by  _existing,_ he is someone useful for business in the future, and has the money to back up his various large requests of us.  _Because_ you need to talk me out of killing someone that is useful,  _because_ I can't just go around murdering  _aaallllllll_ of our business partners that I do not like!"

Q rose an eyebrow. "I think you just about covered why not to kill Silva. Why do you need me to convince you when you already know?"

Jim sighed exaggeratedly and flung himself down onto Q's couch in a dramatic fashion.

He was wearing a pair of Q's pajama pants, the hacker noticed; well, were they really even Q's pants anymore? They smelled more like Jim than they did like Q, because they were the criminal's go-to when he spent the night, which was most nights. It was almost...comforting, the way he knew all the things around his flat that Jimwhether consciously or unconsciouslygravitated towards; the red pajama pants, the  _Doctor Who_ mug, the large gray t-shirt...

So many things that connected him to his brother, and all of a sudden Q felt unbelievably guilty for considering giving him up to Mycroft earlier that evening. Jim was his _brother,_ part of his very  _being_ from the moment he entered the world, and he was going to betray him for...for...for some  _man?_ Ridiculous. Disgusting. Treasonous!

"I love you, Jim," Q said and walked over to the couch, perching on the edge of it to sit by his brother.

Jim looked up at him and frowned, then sat up. "Jamie, what happened?"

Q let out a slow breath, then removed the ring box from his suit jacket and tossed it to Jim. His brother caught it deftly and looked at it with a critical eye. He opened it, closed it again, took a sniff of it, and then glanced subtly at Q's  _(bare)_ left ring finger before raising an eyebrow. There was not, however, any amusement in his expression. Just a grave, serious, contemplative understanding.

"So Mycroft promised you the world. It's just a much different world than the one you and I rule," Jim surmised. He tilted his head. "And for a moment you were tempted. So now you feel guilty."

There was a moment of tense silence, and then Jim leaned forward and held Q's chin firmly between his thumb and pointer finger, locking their eyes.

"Jamie, I need you to listen very carefully to what I'm about to say, because apparently in our twenty-seven and a half years together this little fact hasn't become something you actually  _believe."_ He paused a moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching, then- "You are my _brother,_ you are my _partner,_ and that  _means_ that you don't have to keep proving your loyalty to me. You don't have to keep making yourself  _miserable_ because you think it'll make me happy. Because newsflash! It  _doesn't._ I love you, Jamie, and that isn't going to change because for a moment you saw a chance at happiness with someone else who loves you, and considered it."

Jim released Q's chin but didn't move away or break their eye contact. "I need you to get that through your  _thick_ skull, because it's a _fact._ And I'm gonna let you in on a little secret." He smiled conspiratorially. "I know you better than anyone, brother dear, and that means that even if you considered giving me up for a moment, I know you  _never would."_

Q pulled his brother in for a tight hug, actually needing the physical contact for one of the rare times in his life, and relaxed into it as Jim held him just as tightly.

"You wanna know another secret?" Jim murmured quietly. "I'm really sorry about that being true. But if it came to letting you go or keeping you by my side...I will always choose the latter. I will always choose  _you."_

"Yea," Q said on a breath. "Yea, I'll always choose you, too."

Sadly, that was true. No fucking question about it. Mycroft was incredible, and Q loved him  _so much,_ but there were some bonds that you could never replace, and frankly the elder Holmes just couldn't beat Jim. It was a close race, but a race won by the slightly dysfunctional brotherly relationship instead of the pretty healthy romantic one. And that wouldn't change, even if sometimes Q wished it would.

But most times? Well. He had an empire to run, a department at MI6 to control, a brother to protect. And what a  _(almost)_ perfect life that was.

* * *

After having had a few discussions with Irene Adler after the initial phone call at the pool, Q and Jim had instructed The Woman to hold off on doing anything with the pictures she possessed, because both of them agreed that there was most certainly something  _more_ they could do with them in the future. Jim _also_ thought (and Q had to agree) that this beautiful, intelligent, _cunning_ woman was the perfect obstacle to put in Sherlock Holmes' way, if just for a little while.

Both of these things were proven correct when, four months after the pool incident, Irene called with a very  _interesting_ little piece of information: a piece of a code from a MOD man's cellphone that she'd taken a photo of while he was (quite literally, Q was sure) tied up. The problem? She didn't know what it meant except that it was supposed to  _save the world_ somehow, and the cryptographer she showed it to had no idea what it meant either.

So, naturally, she called up your not-so-friendly neighborhood consulting criminals.

The second problem? Q had no idea what it meant either. And that  _pissed him off._

"It's not a code, Jim," Q grumbled for just about the thousandth time. Jim rolled his eyes. "It's  _not!_ Honestly I think that submissive MOD agent was just trying to impress Adler by making himself seem important. Because  _this is not a code._ There are sections to it, a break down that could possiblyand I mean _possibly_ mean something, but it is _not_ a code."

Jim just smiled at his little brother. "I believe you, Q," he said, his tone thick with amusement, "I also believed you the first two-hundred and seven times you said that or a variation of it. You're the best code breaker I know; if it's not a code, it's not a code. But I  _do_ think it's  _something."_ Then he shrugged in his normal, exaggerated fashion. "And even if it's not, the dear Ms. Adler clearly thinks it is, which is definitely a way to yank her around anywho."

"Sherlock," Q said. Jim rose an eyebrow. "It's not a code-" Q said again, forcefully, "-but if it  _is_ something else, Sherlock is probably the best mind to take a look at it, save Mycroft, and it's not like we can show this possibly classified material to the man who runs it all. We were already planning on getting Sherlock involved, so maybe this is a good spark to get the ball rolling. Start with the pictures, and Adler can definitely take it from there."

His brother nodded slowly, thinking it through. "Works for me. Not yet, though; she can't be the one to approach him, it'll just look suspicious. Sherlock has to get a little bit more famous, get a serious, public reputation going..."

"John Watson's blog gets more popular every day," Q mused. "Another couple monthsSherlock should be high enough in regard that the royals would take Mycroft's advice in hiring his little brother for such a  _sensitive_ topic."

Jim bounced on the balls of his feet excitedly and closed the last few feet between him and his brother, a wide grin on his face, and then placed a kiss on Q's forehead. "We're brilliant!" Jim crowed. "Everything is going to come up Moriarty."

And, sure enough, two months later (after countless newspapers and magazines started to avidly report about Sherlock) Irene Adler called them and said, _"Hello; I think it's time, don't you?"_

The Moriarty brothers were only too happy to agree.

* * *

Mycroft was very annoyed with his brother.

Q could tell this fact from the first moment he walked through the front door of his partner's home, because normally Mycroft was a very still person but at the moment he was pacing, and he only ever paced that quickly or sharply when it had to do with Sherlock.

"Care to fill me in?" Q queried, pulling off his jacket and moving towards the kitchen to get something to drink. He heard Mycroft's footsteps stop before resuming, just as brisk as before. Q grabbed two glasses and the scotch bottle, making Mycroft's a double because he really looked like he needed it, and then headed back into the main room to offer the neat drink to his partner.

"My?" Q prompted softly, watching Mycroft worriedly.

The elder Holmes glanced over at Q and forced himself to stop walking, though it was clearly hard, and sighed. He headed over to the hackerslowlyand took the glass from Q's outstretched hand.

"What did Sherlock do?" Q asked after a moment.

Q had a theory, actually; the day before, Sherlock and John had been invited to visit Buckingham palace and were given the case of The Woman. The pair then went to Adler's house, faced some American thugs, and failed to gain possession of Irene's camera phone. Seeing as Mycroft had entrusted the task of retrieving it to his little brother, and considering how important the topic was, it was understandable that Mycroft was a little pissed off.

But Q, of course, was not supposed to know about any of that. So, the question had to be asked.

"He-" Mycroft began heatedly before taking a deep, calming breath and trying to compose himself. "Yesterday, my little brother was given the very  _important_ task of retrieving an item that could damage the royal family in  _many_ ways, and though he accepted the job he not only failed to complete it, but this morning he told me to simply leave it be, and leave  _her_ alone because for _some reason_ he believes she won't do anything! Of all the stupid-"

He cut himself off angrily and downed the scotch in his glass, his free hand clenching in agitation.

Q stepped forward, gently taking the glass from Mycroft's tight grip, and set it down on the small table about a foot away, along with his own. He placed his hand on the side of Mycroft's neck, stroking the skin there soothingly, and offered the older man a small smile. Mycroft deflated slightly, leaning into the touch.

"He's not as smart as you," Q said quietly, "but he  _isn't_ an idiot. If he says this woman won't use whatever this information is as an attack, then trust him. If he ends up being wrong, then we'll solve whatever problem the information presents. And then you can gloat for a long time."

That final comment drew a tired smile from his partner, and the last bit of Mycroft's anger seemed to drain out of him. He turned his head slightly to press a soft kiss to Q's hand and then said, "What a right thing to say."

The hacker smiled crookedly. "Every once in a while I manage to put the right words in the right order."

Mycroft shook his head, still smiling, and laughed under his breath. "What about you? How was your day wrangling Double-Oh agents and eccentric Q-branchers?"

Q grimaced and led his partner over to the couch to sit down. "Double-Oh-Four is becoming increasingly challenging, his ego beginning to know no bounds, which frustrates meand everyone else who has to work with himto no end. Boothroyd is no help about it, really, because Agent Wardner charms the old man easily. But I think M's catching onto it, so who knows? Hopefully something will be done..."

The hacker let himself get lost in the flow of conversation with his partner, trading stories until it was late and Q's eyes were drooping. Mycroft herded him into the bedroom and helped him take off his shoes, slacks, and sweater before pulling the blanket over him and pressing a light kiss to the his forehead.

Q fell asleep to the sounds of his partner getting ready for bed, the sounds almost as familiar as the ones Jim made in the exact same situations.

* * *

"Why are you here, R?" Sherlock drawled, not even looking up from the newspaper in his hand.

"Because whether or not you want to admit it, you cared for her, and now she's dead," Q said matter-of-factly, not bothering to try being gentle like John had probably been doing the last few days.

"I barely knew her," Sherlock scoffed, turning a page disinterestedly.

"And yet..." Q said with a shrug, moving further into the room. Sherlock shot him an annoyed look.

When John had called him earlier that day, Q had hesitated for a moment before agreeing to go to 221B and talk to the detective about The Woman's death since the doctor hadn't been getting anywhere. He'd  _hesitated_ because he knew Irene Adler was alive, and the idea of lying right to Sherlock's face about it left a sour taste in his mouth. But John was desperate, and Q  _was_ Sherlock's friend after all, so he got his coat and caught a cab to Baker Street.

"John called you, didn't he?" Sherlock accused after examining Q for a moment. "He's such an idiot; just because all the  _ordinary_ people get attached to others doesn't mean _I_ do. I barely even knew her, and I hardly care whether or not she's alive, past the fact that a semi-interesting puzzle vanished with her."

"What did she message you about?" Q asked casually, not even bothering to acknowledge the defense that Sherlock had just tried to put forth, and walked over to the book shelf to look at what collection Sherlock had there. "For three months she texted you at least once a day, from the first day you met. You never replied, I'm assuming, but you also didn't change the text alert sound, so..."

"You all need to let this go," Sherlock replied in an aggrieved tone, his face scrunched up in annoyance.

"Why?" Q asked, just as casual as everything else about him. He glanced over at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

 _"Why?"_ Sherlock repeated incredulously. "Because it's ridiculous, and annoying!  _That's_ why!"

Q hummed in acknowledgment, then walked over and sat in John's chair. "Annoying, sure; you're not used to feeling things and suddenly everyone knows that you do and won't leave you alone about it. That is  _definitely_ cause for annoyance, even though it's perfectly natural, yada yada. But _ridiculous?"_ He shook his head. "No, not quite. In fact we're all on point. You got one out of two, though, that's not bad. But as a detective you might want to think about bringing up your correctness average."

Sherlock scowled. "You're impossible. No wonder Mycroft likes you."

The hacker rose an eyebrow. "You know, you say that like an insult, but you do realize I'd take it as just the opposite, yes?"

"Oh, for god's sake would you just-" Sherlock stood up, agitated. "I'm _fine._ Don't you have a job you should be doing? It's middle of the week, and I doubt _Christmas break_ applies to government agents."

"Tell me about her," Q said quietly, looking up at the detective.

"Wail about my supposed grief, you mean?" Sherlock said derisively, rolling his eyes.

"No," Q replied, "I mean exactly what I said. No more pushing to admit feelings or whatever, just sit down and tell me about Irene Adler."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, licking his lips, and then slowly sat back down in his chair. Then he began to tell the tale of the woman he wouldn't (or couldn't) admit to caring for.

* * *

Just a few days later, Sherlock discovered that Irene Adler was alive, and thus began his mission to get into the camera phone The Woman left in his possession.

Mrs. Hudson was also attacked, and Q made sure that Mycroft reeled in the American dogs because Mrs. Hudson was actually quite the nice lady, and Q didn't like the idea of American agents running rampant in England and attacking old women.

After that, a month and a half of practically nothing passed.

Jim was bored, Q could tell. They hadn't had anything big lately, just a bunch of minor jobs, and the initial excitement in the Irene Adler case had died down as they waited for the long game to pay off. Because of this lull, Jim had thrown himself into planning his grand finale with Sherlock, with Q doing what he always did: making the pieces actually come together.

Which led to what Q was currently doing at two in the morning; spinning a tale about a line of computer code that could open any door, crack into any bank, do practically anything as long as it was connected to something electronic. It was all a complete and utter lie, because despite Q's brilliance there was no way to  _actually_ do such a thing, not with the complexity and diversity of the millions of different systems in the world.

But, nonetheless, whispers of this magic code began to circle in the criminal underworld. Nothing too large, Q made sure, because that was an important part of the grand finale and they couldn't blow it too soon. No; they needed _just enough_ attention that Mycroft would find out and intervene.

This was, of course, helped along by Q mentioning it briefly to Mycroft some weeks later as he was talking about his day, about how some minor agent had heard something about it, but it was probably nothing...

And then Irene Adler actually died.

Everything finally came to a head; Sherlock actually  _did_ figure out the thing that  _wasn't_ a code, and Jim immediately informed the terrorist cell upon Adler sharing the info, thus bringing in a whole new bunch of grateful clients to them and ruining years of the government's  _(Mycroft's)_ hard work. For a moment The Woman had the entirety of England in the palm of her hand, and then-

Well, then she lost it all because she let her heart rule her head. And then she actually  _lost_ her head.

"I had John tell him that she was in Witness Protection in the US," Mycroft murmured against Q's shoulder as they laid in bed together. "Whether or not he wants to admit it, Sherlock genuinely cared for Ms. Adler. And now..." He sighed. His eyes slid shut as Q ran a hand comfortingly through his hair. "If you ever died..."

Q shushed him. "I'm not going anywhere anytime soon," he said softly. "I'm afraid you're going to be stuck with me for a  _long_ while." He pressed a gentle kiss to his partner's lips. "You made the right decision with Sherlock; he doesn't deserve to have to live through her death twice, My, and just like always you protected him. Besides, he has John; Irene Adler was a bit of a setback there, but those two love each other. He won't be alone. He's going to be ok."

* * *

The call from Jim came in the middle of the night two months later.

Q woke blearily, blinking into the darkness for a moment as he adjusted to actually being awake. But his cellphone was still ringing, and so he reached blindly over to his bedside table, pawing around for his phone until he found it.

"Hello?" he prompted, his voice still thick with sleep. He reached over to turn on the bedside lamp, rubbing his eyes when the light momentarily blinded him, and then put on his glasses.

"Jamie," came Jim's familiar voice. But there was something off about it, something duller. "I'm going to be out of contact for a little while."

Q sat up, frowning. "Are you alright? What's going on?"

"Oh yes, dandy," his brother replied, still slightly dulled. "Just getting ready."

A spike of fear tightened Q's chest for a moment, but then he understood. His breath went out unsteadily and his eyes slid shut. "You sure you need to do this, Jim?" he asked quietly. "I could probably find the information you want  _somewhere._ You don't need to go through this, no matter the precautions you're taking."

"We already tried that," Jim said. His voice was getting duller by the second. "This'll work, you know it will, you know  _him._ I imagine I'll start getting what I want after a month, maybe."

Which meant his brother was predicting this job would take two months. Brilliant.

"I just...I don't like this."

"I know," was Jim's quiet response. "But I'll be fine. That's why I'm, well, you know."

"Dulling your mind beyond all awareness so you don't feel pain?" Q said, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Yea, I know. It's just fucking awful seeing you that way, and bringing you out of it is harder every time."

When Jim spoke again, there was something like  _life_ in his voice, just a little, and it made Q feel a little better. "Two months, then it's home sweet home, and we can proceed with the grand finale. It'll be  _epic."_

Q smiled, crooked and not completely happy, but still real. "The  _second_ the torture ends, Jim you start bringing yourself together again. No getting fucking trapped in your mind palace, yea? I know the whole  _no pain_ thing is great, but don't forget that the deeper you go, the less aware you get, and the  _stupider_ you'll become."

Jim chuckled a little at that, but it was an eerily empty sound. "Have to go, Jamie," Jim said on a sigh. "Your boyfriend should reach the final clue to where I am soon, and then all the king's horses will be on my doorsteps."

"Graim thu, Jim," Q murmured softly.

There was a pause, and then Q could hear the smile in his brother's voice when Jim replied, "Graim thu, Jamie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graim thu = one of the various Irish Gaelic ways of saying "I love you"
> 
> I was considering changing the title of this story. Haven't made up my mind whether I actually want to yet, but I was thinking about it. Opinions?
> 
> Also, thank you to the folks who participated in my little make-shift vote at the end of chapter six! That plot point will be coming very soon.....Mwahaha! ;)


	8. The Pr(esent)isoner and the Hacker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim spends time in Mycroft's custody, Q handles problems on multiple fronts, and a unique invitation is extended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT PREVIOUS CHAPTER:  
> Ok so I knew that Ch 7 started May 2010 and ended July 2011 (I have a very detailed WordDoc about when everything takes place), but what I realized is that Ch 7 should then also include Q & Mycroft's 2nd anniversary, not just their 1st, since the chapter has May twice. So I tried to go back and work it in but it just wouldn't fit, so I'm telling you that their 2nd anniversary happens after the scene where Q and Mycroft discuss Irene's death but before Q's phone conversation with Jim at the end of the chapter. Sorry!!
> 
> Also, the reason this took me so long to put out is because I accidently didn't save after writing for a while which deleted like 3000 words and I just couldn't touch it for a long time after that. Sorry guys, I was just super upset about it, and then of course it took a while to recreate. (Plus I just started school so that's kept me busy.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

On the third day of work where Q so obviously couldn't focus or sit still, Boothroyd sent him home, citingin the kind, grandfatherly way of histhat he was no good to them as off-balance and anxious as he clearly was, and to come back after he had dealt with whatever was troubling him.

This is what spurred Q into action, actually, because if he was failing so miserably at controlling himself that the slightly-dotty  _Boothroyd_ was taking notice and actually _acting_ upon his observations, then clearly Q needed to take a step back and reevaluate his situation.

His situation, however, was a rather unique one.

It had been five days since his boyfriend had taken his brother into custody with the intention of torturing him for information. Jim had not, of course, been charged with a crime, but that didn't much matter when it came to clandestine operations against someone who could technically be considered a terrorist. It wouldn't hold up for long  _(two months, two fucking months)_ , but in the meantime, England's finest were currently somewhere hurting his brother.

It made Q want to  _scream._ It made Q want to draw blood, to track down those  _hacks_ that would dare to touch Jim, whether or not it was part of the plan. It made him want to find wherever they were holding his brother _(it would take him barely thirty seconds, it would be so easy-)_ and kill everyone inside until he had Jim safe and healthy and home with him.

But Q could do none of that. Q could not ask Mycroft over dinner whether or not he'd spent the day watching Jim Moriarty bleed. He could not question the torturers about what methods they were using. He could not visit whatever blacksite they were at under the guise of another reason. He could not help his brother at all.

And it made him feel so goddamn  _useless._

But life went on, because at a certain point it had no other choice.

Q allowed himself two days away from MI6 (partially to make sure he could  _actually_ do his day job and not be so distracted like before, partially to take the time to make sure that no one had noticed Jim's absence in his night job) before going back in. He could feel Boothroyd watching him, along with the others who had noticed his odd behavior before, but he'd regained control over himself, so they quickly accepted that he had worked out whatever had been bugging him.

Being around Mycroft, however, was extremely difficult.

He still loved the older man, and he still enjoyed his company, but it was hard to ignore the fact that Mycroft had authorized hurting Jim, whether or not that was his job and part of the Moriarty brothers' plan.

Mycroft could tell something was wrong (because of  _course_ he could) but he also seemed to sense that whatever it was was something Q didn't want to talk about, and respected that (because of  _course_ he did, because Mycroft was never anything less than amazing in their relationship). Instead, Mycroft just was silently supportive and moved forward as if nothing was different between them.

And it wasn't, really. He didn't blame Mycroft for doing his job, just like he didn't blame Jim for coming up with a  _stupid_ way of getting the information he wanted. He still fucking hated all of it all the same.

But life went on, because at a certain point you had to suck it up and  _make_ it.

He did another job for Raoul Silva, against his better judgment, because Jim had been right about the cyberterrorist being a solid client and a good person to have in their back pocket, in case they ever required someone like him, whether for his skills or as a scapegoat.

The problem was that with Jim absent, Q felt far more alone in their enterprises, and meeting with Silva without anyone somewhere backing his play caused him more anxiety than he thought it would have. So initially Q did the work over email correspondence, but like he'd known months back, that wasn't conductive to effectively getting things of this nature done. Thus, he had to go meet me Silva in person again despite really not wanting to.

That's when it occurred to him that he had practically an army of assassins and mercenaries at his disposal, a few of which that were  _extremely_ loyal to him and his brother, which meant that he  _could_ have someone watching his back when he went to meet alone with someone that seriously creeped him out.

And so that was how Q ended up going to meet Silva in the man's most recent hotel room with Sebastian Moran ready and waiting just a few rooms down the hall, just in case Q needed him. The hacker didn't think he  _would,_ but it was nice knowing Sebastian was there all the same.

While Q did the work, Silva sat across the table from him and stared. He barely blinked, he didn't move, and his gaze never wavered. It made Q's skin crawl, just like the last time he was in the same room as Silva, but the hacker just kept himself focused on what he was doing.

Eventually, after maybe half an hour of studiously ignoring Silva and working on his programing, the cyberterrorist silkily said, "I have a question for you, bonito."

Q had forgotten about that annoying nickname, and Silva's voice had startled him, but his fingers didn't stutter in their typing. "And what might that be?"

"Why did you bring a guard with you this time?" the cyberterrorist murmured, voice deceptively sweet.

This time, Q did hesitate ever-so-slightly over one key, not at all noticeable to the common ear. But Silva was no common man, and his smile grew slightly before he pushed himself to his feet, striding around the table to lean against it when he was barely a few inches from Q. The man examined Q intently, eyes dead and smile kindly sharp.

"Last time you came alone," Silva continued when Q did not provide a response, not even looking away from his computer screen (though he had completely stopped typing by now, too focused on how he could feel Silva's body heat). "Which implied that you were either fully confident in your ability to take me down should I attack you,  _or_ you were fully confident that someone somewhere would rain down fire and fury and  _hell_ if I hurt you.

"And now here you are, doing the exact same work you did for me last time, and yet this time you brought Sebastian Moran with you, a man with _quite_ the reputation. I'm wondering why that might be, hmm?" Q didn't say anything. Silva tilted his head. "Nothing? No explanations that would dispel my... _suspicions?"_

Sebastian was only a few rooms away. Q just needed to send one small text, and the dedicated soldier would be there. The thought emboldened him.

"I don't care about your suspicions, Mr. Silva," Q said firmly, finally turning his head to meet the cyberterrorist's gaze. With Silva standing and Q sitting there was a definitive difference in height that Q didn't like, but he didn't let his discomfort with it show. "You can think whatever you like, but when it comes down to it I'm going to do my job and then you're going to deliver the second half of payment to Mr. Moriarty. That is all that need happen here."

"See, that is part of my..." he swiped his tongue over his top teeth,  _"curiosity,_ I suppose. My  _suspicion._ Because what  _I_ think is that you brought a guardian because there currently  _isn't_ someone who would destroy me if I hurt you. You, mi querido, are on your own at the moment. James Moriarty is  _ausente,_ isn't he? Hence the guard."

Q said nothing. Silva's smile grew and he went on.

"Which then, of course, leads to two  _very_ important questions." He reached out and pushed back a lock of Q's hair in an intimate gesture. Q bit his tongue, his hands balling into fists. "Do you know what those are? Hmm?" One of Q's clenched hands inched towards his pocket where his cellphone was.

Then there was a gun muzzle pressed against his throat.

Q stilled.

"The first question," Silva said silkily, calmly, as if he hadn't just amped up their conversation by introducing a threat of death, "is where Mr. Moriarty has gone off to that he is indisposed enough that you felt the need to bring along insurance. The  _second_ question is why, in the first place, does James Moriarty care so much about you that you feel confident that he would sacrifice an excellent ally in me if I were to touch you?" He paused momentarily. "Any ideas?"

"I would advise you removing that gun," Q said steadily. "Because as you so _astutely_ pointed out, I have an extremely skilled assassin just a few feet away."

Silva's smile grew. It was slick and dark and slimy and Q felt a shiver run down his spine.  _"Ah,_ but you have to  _contact_ him first, which clearly you can't do at the moment. So I have you  _allllllll_ to myself, eh, bonito?"

The man pushed himself off of the table, adjusting his arm to keep the gun in place against Q's throat, and then turned Q's chair to face him. The hacker leaned back as Silva leaned forward, suddenly very concerned for the position they found themselves in. Silva had already shown that he didn't much care about Q's boundariesor, Q assumed, _anyone's_ so the situation could so easily go sideways.

"While we're asking  _questions,"_ Silva continued, apparently unperturbed by Q's silence and discomfort, "might I ask how you got those scars of yours? The ones I saw were at least ten years old, yes? Late-teens, mid-teens...how did a teenager end up being intensely tortured?"

Silva's far-too-close proximity and his prompting words paired together were bringing up unpleasant memories for Q, and he tried to replace them with the mental image of Silva bleeding out at his feet, dying painfully.

In the first hint of actual annoyance, Silva's eyes darkened, and he pressed the gun more firmly against Q's throat. "The questions I ask, bonito, are not optional. Unless you'd like to strip down so I can see all the scars...?"

Q's pulse jumped in anxiety, adrenaline flooding his system to meet the fear he felt.  _Sebastian, Sebastian, Sebastian,_ Q said desperately in his head, though the assassin had no way to know that something was wrong. And honestly, how was it that when he brought a guardian he was in more danger than when he'd met Silva alone?

"I was fifteen," Q gritted out. "Got on the wrong side of some powerful people. They tortured me to teach me a lesson. How about  _you?"_

Silva ignored the question about his own experience easily. "Well, bonito, scars add character; I'm sure you look  _divine_ covered with them."

That line sounded far more like a threata dark promisethan like a compliment.

"Now," Silva murmured, a smile playing at his lips again, "take off your shirt."

Q kicked out, landing a firm hit on Silva's stomach. The elder man curved slightly, instinctively protecting the area, his face scrunching up in anger and pain. Before Silva could move his gun back into an aiming position, Q kicked again, this time forcing Silva to stumble back. Instantly Q got to his feet, sprinting towards the door, but Silva caught him before he reached the exit, throwing him to the ground and pinning him there.

Q thrashed, real fear making panic take over and a clear mind take the back seat. Silva, stronger than him and bigger than him, held him in place easily. Q just barely held back a sob as his memories swam through his mind, mixing with the present situation.

"Now, now, that wasn't very nice," Silva chastised, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "We were having such a  _pleasant_ conversation, bonito."

"Get off of me!" Q snarled back at him, but it was far less controlled than he'd meant it to be, and fear made his voice tremble and shake.

Silva blinked, looking down at Q with new curiosity, and then some kind of understanding dawned in his expression. A sly smile came across his face. "Well, well. It seems they did more than  _torture_ you, hmm? I must say I can understand the appeal." His eyes dragged up and down Q's body, hooded and darkly pleased, and his free handthe one not tightly gripping Q's wristsstroked his side, just above the top of his pants.

Q squeezed his eyes shut and trembled faintly.

Then, very suddenly, Silva got off of him and walked away.

Q's eyes flew open and he gasped, sucking in large gulps of air. It took him a minute to calm himself down  _(fuck, shit, he hadn't reacted so badly in such a long time)_ but when he did he sat up and looked around.

Vaguely bewildered, Q saw Silva sitting back at the table, this time in front of Q's computer and intently examining the program Q had been putting together. The cyberterrorist's eyes flicked up momentarily, glancing at Q, and then back to the computer.

"Come, come, bonito," he said lightly, "you're so close to done." Then he turned around the laptop and pushed it across the table, waving a hand towards the second chair to indicate Q should sit down.

After a moment _because what the hell_ Q got to his feet, absolutely  _refusing_ to be unsteady as he walked over to the table and slid into the chair. He took a slow, deep breath, let it out just as slowly, and then got to work.

* * *

That night, when Q went over to Mycroft's and entered with the key he'd been given some time ago, he found the place empty. Mycroft was probably still at work, but Q didn't want to go home just then. His day had been very trying, he was still feeling a little shaky, and he wanted the comfort of either his brother or his partner, and he couldn't have Jim around for six more weeks.

So he went into Mycroft's bedroom, took off his day clothes, and pulled on one of Mycroft's large t-shirts to sleep in. Then he climbed into the king-sized bed, breathed in the lingering, familiar scent of his partner, and drifted to sleep.

In the morning, Q woke to a feather-light kiss on his forehead and a hand carding gently through his hair. He smiled sleepily, enjoying the moment, and then opened his eyes to meet Mycroft's soft gaze.

"I didn't hear you come in last night," Q murmured, stretching as he sat up.

"You're such a light sleeper," Mycroft replied, "I didn't want you wake you by climbing in beside you, so I slept on the couch." He brushed his hand through Q's thick curls again before moving over to his closet to finish getting dressed for the day. "And not that I mindat allcoming home and finding you in my bed, but may I ask what drove you to come over and not reach out to me?" He looked over at Q and tilted his head. "Did something happen?"

Remembering his meeting with Raoul Silva the night before, Q's stomach churned. Something must have shown on his face because Mycroft turned to fully face him, eyebrows furrowing in concern. "James? Are you alright?"

"I..."

Q wanted to be honest with Mycroft, he really did. And he sort of wanted to talk about it. But that was  _Moriarty Business,_ and Mycroft couldn't know anything about it. So, thinking quickly, Q decided to use the tactic he tended to when needing to hide things from his partner: create a new backstory and then manipulate the truth.

The hacker sighed. "I ran into someone I'd worked with a few times, back when I was still freelance. Another hacker. But he'd always creeped me out and made me uncomfortable, so the meeting was just..." he shook his head. "It made me anxious. I wanted something familiar, something comforting, so I came here."

Mycroft walked back over to the bed and sat down, looking at Q with a serious expression. "Is this something I should be worried about? Will he..." Mycroft seemed to be looking for the right words. "Will he pursue more meetings? Is he a threat to you?"

Q smiled slightly at the protectiveness in Mycroft's tone. "No, don't be worried. Trust me, I'll be making sure we stay  _far_ away from each other. And I'm alright now." The furrow between Mycroft's eyes didn't lessen though, so Q reached out with a hand and placed it against his face, cupping his cheek. "Really, Mycroft," Q said with a soft, reassuring smile, "I'm ok. I just wanted to be here."

"Well I must admit to being pleased that you came here when you were upset because being here was comforting to you," Mycroft said, pressing a small kiss to the edge of Q's palm.

Q smiled, unable to help it, and moved forward to kiss Mycroft for real, pulling his partner towards him, which Mycroft easily allowed and held Q against him in return. Q moved forward, straddling Mycroft's thighs, and smiled against Mycroft's mouth when the elder man made a deeply pleased sound, one of his hands smoothing through and gripping the strands of Q's longer hair, the other resting against Q's side.

Then Mycroft groaned and broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Q's and forcing his breathing into controlled timing.

"My?" Q asked curiously, slightly self-conscious.

"I would like nothing more to spend a very long time doing this," Mycroft murmured in response, "but I really must get to work. There's a rather large project currently happening and..." he shook his head. "I'm sorry, I have to go."

Q's veins turned to ice water.  _A rather large project._ Jim. Mycroft was talking about Jim, about Jim's torture.

"Oh, of course," Q said understandingly, his smile content while inside he wanted to  _scream._ "Don't worry about me; you go run the world, or whatever it is you pretend not to do. I'll see you later." He kissed Mycroft lightly and then got up, heading towards the bathroom to take an extremely hot shower and try to forget that in approximately six weeks when he saw his brother again, the elder Moriarty might have marks of pain on his body that were ordered by the man Q loved.

* * *

Never before had two months dragged along so. Fucking. Slowly.

The first two he kept busy constantly to try to distract himself, but the six after that were strangely absent of jobs, both on the MI6 and criminal sides. Everything was disgustingly quiet,  _right_ when he needed some action.

And of course, this was assuming that Jim's estimation of how long Mycroft would wait to make a deal and then how long he'd hesitate before agreeing to sell out Sherlock's secrets and then how long it would be until Mycroft was forced to release Jim due to pressure from the (very few) people above him because technically evidence of Jim Moriarty's crimes didn't exist, and Jim's  _own_ existence was even very hard to prove (Q could  _very_ easily mess with records, and he had done so many times).

Sebastian was a big help in distracting Q, mainly because he was just as anxious as the hacker and therefore knew the best ways to go about handling the situation. (Plus, after all these years, Sebastian also knew  _Q_ very well, and thus knew how to help him in particular.)

Two weeks, four days, and nine hours before Jim was supposed to return (not that Q was counting, or anything), there was a mini-rebellion in their organization. A small group of men who worked for Jim and Q (an assassin, a thief, a drug dealer, and two mercenaries) decided that they were powerful enough to overthrow Moriarty, and smart enough to _keep_ said power of the organization after doing so.

Less than half an hour after this _rebellion_ began, all of them were dead. Two by Q's own hand. Any talk of further action against Q and Jim ceased then and there.

Two months after Jim's capture, Q was practically vibrating with his anxiety, pacing the length of his flat in quick, agitated lines as he waited for his brother to show up, or to call, or maybe even for Sebastian to come over and tell him that he'd found Jim's dead _(tortured)_ body in a ditch.

And then _five minutes before midnight_ Q's front door opened and Jim came striding in, head held high, a small, familiar smirk turning up the corners of his mouth.

"Hello, brother dear," Jim said, as if he hadn't been locked up for the past two months, as if he hadn't shut his mind away, as if he hadn't been _tortured_ and _hurt_ and actually _chosen to be so._ As if Q hadn't been worried sick for two months, ready to burn the entire British government to the ground (Mycroft Bloody Holmes probably included) just so he could know his brother was ok again.

"You fucking asshole!" Q shouted, because he wasn't actually angryespecially not at Jimbut he needed to get out all his pent up aggression. "Shit goddamn fuck _shit_ Jim! Two bloody months!"

Jim tilted his head, still smiling, but the expression softened just a touch. "I missed you too, Q. And though I appreciate the sentimenttruly trulyI also appreciate you not burning down the world while I was spending some quality time with the king's men." He paused, then his smile turned cheeky. "It would've robbed me of the opportunity, after all!"

Q laughed, breathless and relieved that his brother was standing before him. It felt like a weight had been lifted, like he could breathe a little easier. Jim seemed...well, he seemed alrightboth mentally and physicallyall things considered, he was _(mostly)_ unharmed, the plan was still on track, and the world was still spinning. Everything was alright. Q rolled his shoulders, feeling far more relaxed than he had for a while.

"So," he said, walking towards the kitchen to get them both a strong drink, "did you get everything you needed?"

"Oh yes," Jim replied eagerly, following Q and hopping up to sit on the kitchen counter, "Mr. Holmes the Elder was all too ready to sell his baby bother's secrets down the river if it meant getting some secrets from the nasty little Irish terrorist. Not that he got a _lot_ from me, of course, much to his slight annoyance..."

Jim trailed off, his eyes going slightly distant as he mentally went over the details of some memory from the last two months. Then he shook his head slightly and perked up, smiling at Q. "So!" he exclaimed, "anything exciting happen in my absence?"

Q immediately jumped into a rundown of the last two months, all the jobs he'd doneincluding the big ones from MI6as well as what Sherlock had been up to, considering that he knew Jim would want to know about his darling detective's life.

In all his talking, Q didn't mention the incident with Silva. He really didn't know why he didn't say anything; if he told Jim, then Silva would be killed, and the world a better place for it. No, correctionSilva wouldn't be killed, at least not right away; Jim would torture him until the cyberterrorist didn't even know his own name, and only _then_ would Jim grant him death, and certainly not in a painless way.

It was a truly lovely thought. So Q really had no idea why he didn't tell his brother. Why he hadn't, at the time, told Sebastian. Maybe it was because the whole situation made him feel weak, and he didn't want his big brother running in to save him. Maybe he'd weighed the pros and cons and figured that in the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter, considering how much money Silva was giving them. Or maybe he was just so tired of being so fucking bothered by people touching him that he refused to extend the consequences any further than what had already happened.

Whatever the reason, it kept Q's mouth shut.

After he'd gotten Jim up to speed, Q got into sleep clothes and passed his elder brother the red pajama pants and large gray t-shirt, unable to stop himself from smiling as Jim relaxed unconsciously into the clothing. Then the pair climbed into Q's bed and curled together, tightly wound until they couldn't quite tell where one stopped and the other began. Neither fell asleep for a very long time, but that wasn't the point.

When Q eventually did fall asleep, it was to the peace of his brother's presence and the knowledge that things were going to get very big very soon.

* * *

The second Q entered Mycroft's office, he knew what mood the elder man was in.

He was sitting at his desk, hands folded in front of his face and his eyebrows furrowed. This was the way Mycroft got when something had not gone the way he wanted, whether it meant he'd made a mistake, someone else had, or something out of his direct control made what he wanted impossible. Q also knew  _exactly_ what had caused this mood this time.

And so Q hesitated in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, the other holding a bag of Chinese take-out. It was Jim that had caused this. It was how Mycroft had had to let Jim go because despite everything there was a system of justice in their fine nation, and the (very few) people above Mycroft had instructed him to let Jim go because of insufficient evidence. Q might have helped that along a little, which was just the cherry on top for why he shouldn't enter...

Q took a deep breath and shut the door the door behind him, striding over to the desk and beginning to remove containers from the bag. Mycroft glanced up at him and sighed, shaking his head a little. "James-" he began.

"I know," Q interrupted, folding up the take-out bag and tossing it into the trash. "You're frustrated because you had to let Jim Moriarty go-" he ignored Mycroft's widened eyes, "-which means you're in that head space where you try to go over every possible thing you could've done differently and everything you can do from here, which  _also_ means that you have no plans to eat or sleep for a long time. I'm going to remedy that."

"How do you know about James Moriarty?" Mycroft asked, leaning forward. "That project was  _highly_ classified."

"Eat this beef lo mein and maybe I'll tell you," Q shot back, placing utensils and the container of food in front of his partner. Mycroft stared back at him for a moment before giving a small nod and picking up a fork.

They ate in silence for a while, and when Mycroft was about three-fourths done, the elder man set down his utensils and looked at Q with a level stare. "How did you know about the capture and release of James Moriarty?"

Q put down his own fork and leaned back in his chair, meeting Mycroft's look calmly. "Mycroft, I am the second in command of MI6's Q-branch, which an argument could be made for that putting me as third or fourth in charge of the entire organization. Part of my job is keeping track of threats to our nation, and Jim Moriarty fits the bill, so I've been monitoring the situation."

That was not, strictly speaking, a good answer. Q (as R, an upstanding member of Q-branch) was not actually informed of any such operation. Boothroyd (as the  _actual_ Q) wasn't informed of the operation, either. Nor Tanner, nor any other higher-ups like him. When Mycroft called the Jim Moriarty operation  _classified,_ he seriously meant  _classified._

Which Mycroft, of course, knew. "You do not have access to that level of intelligence in your position. No one in MI6 save M  _herself_ had knowledge of the operation to capture and interrogate Moriarty. So how do you know all about it, and even that yesterday we had to release him?" Then understanding dawned in Mycroft's expression. "You hacked MI5. You hacked into the secure, _classified_ servers to look at material you don't have the clearance to see."

"I monitored information that was relevant to the state of affairs in our nation. I kept an eye on an operation that easily could have gone volatile, and one that involved a man that is very much focused on one of my friends. And about not having  _clearance..."_ Q shook his head incredulously. "Are you honestly concerned about me being a  _security breach?_ I'm offended. Anything I saw or read is not going beyond me."

"That's not the point," Mycroft said tersely. "You are no longer a freelance hacker; you are a government official. That comes with a certain set of rules. What if you'd been caught? Your life would be over."

Q snorted. "I'm far too good to be caught by the computer techs MI5 employs, you don't have to worry about that."

Mycroft rubbed a hand across his face, sighing tiredly. "Just...don't do it again, yes? There is no need to  _hack_ the government you work for, no need to risk yourself or access information you are not supposed to. Do not...please do not do it again. And leave the James Moriarty mess behind you. It's bad enough that my brother is wrapped up in all of this. Unless the topic passes your desk, stay away from it. Stay away from hacking."

Q nodded, holding back a humorless smile and sharp words of indignationQ had never been very good at following orders he didn't like.

* * *

In Jim's flat, one wall became dedicated to the life of Sherlock Holmes.

All the little tidbits of information Mycroft had given Jim, all the things the brothers had discovered over the years, all the things Q had learned from both Sherlock and Mycroft since entering their lives. A timeline was formed, an identity made, papers and photos and videos and articles pieced together until it was perfect, until both Jim and Q had every part memorized.

Everything was going to come to a head soon. All the pieces were coming together, all the players moving into place, whether they knew it or not. With every day that passed, the Moriarty brothers planned and plotted and  _perfected_ and then did it all again and again. They moved slowly when it came to controlling and moving things outside of the two of them, not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves before it was Time with a capital _T._ But for everything else,  _well_ they were on  _fire._

Looking at everything they were doing, the final game would happen a year from when Jim was released from Mycroft's loving care. It was kind of poetic, really. But the _best_ thing that happened while they were working was three months later, on Christmas day, when Jim got a very peculiar message.

"For fuck's  _sake,_ Jim!" Q shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "You're actually going to  _go?"_

"Well, of course," Jim saidhis tone implying that that was the most obvious fact in the worldas he examined the various suits in his closet. "One does not turn down this kind of invitation!"

"Uh, yes, one _does!"_ Q exclaimed, laughing incredulously. "This is  _exactly_ the kind invitation one turns down when one is an enemy of the state!"

Jim made a noise with his mouth that sounded dismissive and childish, which shouldn't have surprised Q, and made the younger Moriarty let out a frustrated shout.

"Oh, Q,  _relax,"_ Jim cooed, shooting Q a quick grin. "You have to admitthis is pretty _exciting,_ isn't it? I've always wanted to see this place, and now I get to! It's definitely a win. Plus isn't that beautiful curiosity of yours  _sparked?_ Why now, why  _there,_ why  _invite_ me...?"

Q rolled his eyes. "Me being  _curious_ doesn't mean I think you should do this! You might have been let go before but you're on thin ice! I don't think tempting fate is a good idea!"

Jim smiled at him like  _'Aren't you cute?'_ and Q scowled in response. "You're too cautious, baby brother," Jim teased.

"You're not cautious enough!" Q shot back. "That's  _why_ I'm so bloody cautious! Remember when you were ten and wanted to break into that construction site? You were _adamant,_ and teased me for wanting to take precautions. The only reason we weren't caught by the police was because I plotted a route for us to escape in the eventuality that they showed up!"

"And thus, we escaped unscathed," Jim announced. Q was so outraged by that comment that he felt his mind short circuit for a moment. Jim sighed and turned to face Q. "Jamie, I'm going to be fine. I know I'm not invincible, I know there are many things that could go wrong, I know that this is a dangerous idea. But I'm not an idiot, and neither are you. It's not like I'm going to be going in blind, is it? I have an army on the outside ready to storm the castle if someone even  _looks_ at me wrong. And that army is led by the most brilliant man I know.

"So  _relax,_ Q. You should know by now that together we can do anything, and just like many times in the past, we're not caught off guard by something; we have time to make a plan. And if he tries to lock me up, well..." Jim smiled, wide and open-mouthed and _brilliant._ "I'm sure you already have a few million ideas on how to take the place down, don't you?"

Q sighed a little, nodded, and then smiled ruefully back at his brother. "Yes, I do. So before you go to your possible imprisonment, how about we put a few contingencies together, yes?"

* * *

When Jim returned from his trip to Sherrinford, the most highly secure prison in the world, he was grinning widely, breathing heavily, and filled with restless excitement.

Before Q could say anything, Jim breathed, "There's a  _sister."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the title of this chapter as clever as I think it is? Jim was both a prisoner and he was Euros' present, so I combined the two......heh heh. It's probably so lame, but I smiled when it came to me.
> 
> So, I lied about this chapter being about a year long like the last one. It was *supposed* to be a year (and be mainly about Skyfall), but then there was a lot more to do in this chapter than I thought there would be and I was running with ideas I hadn't planned on, so. It was starting to get up to double the length. So! This chapter is now like (approx.) 5 months long. Jim gets taken in July, returns two months later, and then Euros is (obviously) Christmas.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Skyfall Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim deals with some demons, Q allows a bad life decision to take place, and a certain Double-Oh dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo it's been about 3 months since the last chapter. School started up and I'm working and juggling an internship and a newfound social life and just....life is extremely busy. So, so, so sorry! I thank you for your patience. Updates from here on are probably gonna be coming in slowly (hopefully not 3 fucking months slowly, but slowly nonetheless).
> 
> Hope you enjoy this (extremely late) chapter!

On February 17th, 2012, James Bond was shot from the roof of a train.

* * *

There was something wrong with Jim.

Nothing major, nothing that impacted their business or their interactions, but there was  _something._

It showed in the flatness of his eyes whenever not completely focused on a task, a flatness that wasn't part of who Jim was. It showed in the split-second, blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment of hesitation before spewing out a trail of deductions. It showed in every atom because Q knew his brother as well as he knew himself, and there was something  _wrong._

Q just wasn't quite sure what is  _was,_ though.

So he watched, and he waited, and he catalogued everything. It had been about five months since Jim returned, just under two since they discovered the existence of Euros Holmes, discovered the existence of a family secret not even Sherlock knew about (despite  _thinking_ he knew). And everything was  _fine._ They were fine, Sebastian was fine, Mycroft was fine, Alec and Sherlock and John were all  _fine._

But there was... _something._

And the day Commander James Bond was shot and killed by an inexperienced MI6 agent, Q learned what it was.

Q got back to his apartment after a grueling day of work, his eyes practically already closing. The entire department was in shock, after that fateful announcement of the death of Double-Oh-Seven, and as it turned out there was a lot of work to be done to  _handle_ the death of such an agent. Q was exhausted and ready for a good cup of earl gray before crawling into bed.

Instead, he entered his apartment to find Jim sitting on the floor, his hair a mess, his eyes wild and unfocused. His clothesonly a white button-down and black slacks, no shoes or socks or jacket or tiehad stains splattered across them, so obviously caused by blood that it was laughable. There was some on his face, too. Jim didn't so much as twitch.

And that's when it clicked.

"Shit," Q sighed. He shut the door behind him, making sure it was locked, and removed his coat and scarf. "Jim, why didn't you say something?" Of course his brother didn't respond, but Q wasn't really expecting an answer. Not now, at least. Not before they fixed what was happening.

Walking forward, Q slowly lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged in front of Jim. He tilted his head, examining his brother. His gaze was steady, but vacant. His posture was straight, but lacking in presence. The blood was fresh, but not Jim's.

"Ex nihilo nihil fit," Q murmured, shaking his head a little. He watched his brother silently for another minute. Then he asked, "Is it the ocean or the maze?"

He didn't expect a response to this question, either, but he knew it would sink into whatever cave Jim was in, whatever deep place. He knew Jim would hear it, and that it would remind him there were other things than the wildness he had found himself in.

They should've taken care of this as soon as Jim returned from captivity. They should've fixed this _immediately_ so that it didn't fester like a wound. Because it was a wounda wound of the mind, maybe, but a wound nonetheless.

"Ocean or maze," Q repeated quietly. He reached out, intent on pressing his pointer and middle fingers to the inside of Jim's wrist as a point of contact to the real world, but the moment his skin made contact, Jim lashed out.

The sudden movement caught Q by surpriseit shouldn't have, Jim was all about lightning quick changesso he barely had time to rear back out of range, and the blow clipped his jaw. There was no time to recover, either, because Jim was still moving, still attacking. His strikes were wild, matching the disorder of his current mind state, but the force and persistence behind them more than made up for it. Q was using all his energy simply on blocking his brother from doing _either_ of them any damage.

"The ocean, then," Q muttered, aggravated, and worked on pinning Jim's arms down. He finally managed it, holding his brother tightly against him, chest to back, his face pressed against the messyusually so neatstrands of Jim's dark hair. Jim let out a wordless scream, straining against the hold.

"You're alright," Q sighed, closing his eyes. He gripped his brother more tightly, breathing in his familiar scent, and worked on calming his own racing heartbeat. He hated seeing Jim like this. He hated it he hated it he _hated it._

When Jim called him all those months ago and told him that he was about to let Mycroft capture him, Q had feared the state his brother would return to him in. But when Jim came back he was alright, mostly fine, and Q had felt relieved that Jim had brought himself out of that horrid place he stuck himself when he needed to feel no pain. And really, he probably hadwould have needed to do it, to spend a month trading information with Mycroft Holmes. But apparently not all the way. Not far enough.

And for some reason, he hid that from Q.

"It's dry out here Jim," Q told him brother, his lips brushing the skin of the back of his brother's neck. "It's warm, and safe, and I'm here, so it's infinitely better than where you are, yea?" His breathing was deep but shaky, and he held his breath for a few seconds to try to correct the weakness. "Come on out, deartháir; there aren't any awful cliffs to slash your thoughts against out here. It'sit's warm, and safe..."

Jim's mind was, and always had been, a dangerous place. Q's mind was too, but the difference was undeniable and violent: while Q's mind was a dangerous place for the rest of the world,  _Jim's_ mind was a dangerous place for  _Jim._ Q's thoughts, when he got too deep into them, didn't attack him. Jim's  _did._

When they were much younger, Q had easily noted the distinction between them: Jim was fire  _(volatile and sharp and ever-changing),_ made of whims and emotions and every action hinged on his  _mood._ Q was ice  _(clear and sharp and precise),_ based in logic and balance and driven by the way things clicked together  _just so_ to make everything work. Both of them were dangerous, deadly; two types of the same kind of weapon. Poorly for Jim, fire tended to drain life from the very thing that gave it existence in the first place.

Jim's mind wouldn't exist without Jim. Sadly, that didn't stop it from trying to destroy him when he got too deep.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Q asked again, expecting no reply, and truly not able to comprehend any possible explanation he might've been given had Jim been able to open his mouth and have coherent words pour out. "Why'd you let this happen?"

They sat like that for the next hour, Jim's thrashing slowly working its way towards stopping, his breathing slowly evening, his pulse slowly reaching a normal beat. He slumped in Q's hold but Q didn't let go, not for another two hours when Jim said, "This is nice and all, but I have to use the bathroom."

Q didn't move. Jim sighed. The room fell silent. They sat like that for another hour.

"Jamie," Jim said quietly, "I'd rather not pee on your nice hardwood floor, so if you'd be so kind as to let go of me...?"

After a beat, during which Q wasn't sure he was going to acquiesce, the younger Moriarty slowly loosened his hold on the older, centimeter by centimeter as if terrified that Jim would shatter if Q truly let go.

As Jim stood on slightly unsteady legs, Q allowed himself a grimace at his protesting muscleshe'd been hunched in the same position for four hours and his body was unhappy with it and the sudden change to free movement. The tightness of Jim's expression told Q that his brother was feeling much the same, and neither of them said anything as Jim left the room to resettle his mind, now that he'd forced Q into pulling him back from the edge.

* * *

A switch had been flipped, and Q had never been so relieved for something in his life.

Things were still shaky for a few daysas far down as Jim had gone, it took him a solid minute to fully get back to be firmly in controlbut Q felt like he had his brother back. He still didn't understand why Jim hadn't said anything  _(Jesus fuck, Jim, what the hell happened?!)_ , and no matter how he tried to ask, Jim brushed off the question.

After a few _frustrating_ attempts, Q let it go. One day Jim would tell him, he knew that for a fact. That day was simply not today.

Q didn't learn whose blood had been on Jim's clothing.

He didn't learn why Jim's final break happened on that day of all days.

(One day, Jim _would_ tell him those things, too. Q _knew_ he would. But whenever that was felt so very far away.)

Things slowly began again. Q, as R, was very busy. Everyone at MI6even the people who had cursed his name while aliveseemed to be mourning James Bond. This, of course, made  _zero_ sense to Q, who had been around for the deaths of two Double-Ohs since starting at MI6, and the deaths of  _many_ other field agents, and had yet to see a response such as the one currently going on. Agents dying was the norm, not surprising. And yet...

And yet, Commander James Bond's funeral was packed to the brim of people, a sea of somber faces and respectful words. Just about every person in senior government was there, and what seemed like every MI6 agent to ever meet Bond attended as well. It seemed, though he annoyed the hell out of everyone, James Bond still garnered a dedicated following and funeral.

M gave a beautiful speech. Alec sat with his jaw clenched the entire time, eyes blank and not shifting from the spot on the wall where he'd fixed them. All the other Double-Ohs were much the samestony expressions, stiff posture, silent as the grave. They'd closed ranks, the way Q had seen them do at previous Double-Oh funerals; the agents of the Double-Oh capacity didn't always get along, and usually weren't considered _friends,_ but they were a rare breed and no one on earth could understand them like each other. It fostered a certain kind of connection that meant they took each others' deaths (and injuries, even) very seriously.

After the funeral was over, when everyone was simply milling about the frozen plot of land shaking hands and waiting awkwardly for the appropriate amount of time to leave, Alec approached Q and stared at Bond's tombstone.

"We need to find them," he said firmly, but there was a certain amount of deadness to his voice. Q didn't reply. Alec took a slow breath in and out. "Q. I've worked for you and your brother for just about eight years. I've been nothing but a loyal soldier. And now my best friend is-" he broke off, his jaw clenching, and he squinted into the distance. "My best friend is dead, Q. And just this _once_ I'd like to ask you for somethinghelp me find the men who killed him. Help me take them down."

"The person who killed Bond is right over there," Q replied, jutting his chin towards where Eve Moneypenny stood to the side of M. The young agent had perfected the blank mask of indifference, which was goodafter killing James Bond, she'd need to have a thick skin. People weren't going to let her forget what she did, whether or not it's what she intended, whether or not she was ordered to do so.

"You know what I mean," Alec snapped in response, turning to face Q. His entire body was lined with tension. Fury and grief were flooding through him and the Double-Oh was desperate for vengeance and justice and  _blood._ He was beautiful like this, Q had to admithe looked dangerous, unhinged. Like he was capable of anything, like he was just one push away from doing something truly awful.

If Q didn't want to keep having a Double-Oh agent in his back pocket, he'd wind Alec Trevelyan up _just a bit more_ and then let him loose to see what havoc he could wreak.

It would be gloriously bloody and terrible and destructive, Q was sure. Alas, Alec was a better asset than ticking time bomb, which meant that Q had to calm him down before he did something they'd both regret.

"I'm already doing everything I can, Alec," Q said evenly. "That's kind of my  _job,_ remember?" The agent opened up his mouth to protest, but Q stopped him with a sharp glare. "Commander James Bond was a loyal MI6 operative and thus, as the second-in-command of Q-Branch, I will be doing  _everything_ in my power to track down the criminals responsible for his death so that we can bring them to justice and recover the missing list."

He paused and glanced around subtly. "Also," he added, pitching his voice low as to make sure it didn't carry to any of the  _many_ government agents milling about, "I'm very curious to find the people who managed to pull something like this off. Jim and I aren't big fans of unknowns working on our turf."

Some of the tension bled out of Alec; the Double-Oh knew that when Q was curious about something he wouldn't let it go, which meant that James Bond's killer would be found sooner or later.

* * *

There was someone waiting for Q in his flat when he got back.

His gun was in his hand the second the door was open, finger on the trigger, his eyes straining to make out shapes in the darkness. There was nothingnot a single sound or movement, no indication that there was anyone breaking into his apartment. And yet his gun remained drawn.

It was late, and he'd just spent an entire day faking sadness in relation to Bond's death and pretending that he didn't know about Eurus Holmes or Sherrinford in front of Mycroft. It was possible he was just on edge enough that his brain was making up a threat. Likely, even. He was sleep deprived, after all, and still stressed about Jimhis mind could simply be playing tricks on him as a way to show him he needed to slow the fuck down.

Or, there was someone in his bedroom. Whistling.

Q shut and locked the front door and moved through the living room towards his bedroom. The door was cracked, as he'd left it, with the bedside lamp on, just as it had been earlier when he forgot to turn it off. After pausing for a moment to consider calling backup, Q nudged the door open with his foot and leveled his gun at the person currently lying on his bed.

"Hello, bonito," Raoul Silva purred, stretching languidly across Q's sheets. "Did you miss me in our time apart?"

"Get out," Q forced through gritted teeth, happily aiming right at that smug smile Silva seemed overly fond of.

Silva pressed a hand over his heart, eyes going wide in mock offense. "My dearest Oliver, is that any way to speak to an old friend?"

Q cocked the gun. Silva laughed and sat up, leaning towards Q, his eyes gleaming as he watched the hacker's every reaction.

It had been a while since they'd seen each other, just about seven months, and Q had been in absolutely no rush to reunite. Silva didn't look any different; still dying his hair that godawful color, still holding himself in the poised position of a predator, still picking Q apart with his eyes. But there was something stronger about him, thoughsomething more _purposeful._

Q didn't want to think what that would mean for the rest of the world.

"Why are you here?" Q asked, starting to find the silence they'd fallen into stifling.

Silva leaned back on his hands and tilted his head, his lips curling up further. "I have a  _proposition_ for you, bonito."

Q barked out a surprised laugh. "No, no; as of now Mr. Moriarty is not doing any more business with you. I'll be sure to give you a call whenor ifthat changes."

"You misunderstand," the cybercriminal said condescendingly. He stood up  _(Q adjusted his aim accordingly)_ and rolled his shoulders, ducking his head slightly to look at Q through his eyelashes. "I don't have a proposition for your  _employer,_ Oliver; I have one for  _you."_

Another laugh made its way through Q's lips, his eyes widening incredulously. "You can't be serious," he said, smiling because  _no way._ "There is absolutely zero chance that I would do any more work for you unless ordered to do so by my boss."

"You should've thought of that," Silva murmured, his eyes keen as he watched Q, "when you used your real name while meeting me."

Q's breathing stopped.

Silva took a couple steps forward until he was about a foot from Q, never breaking the intense, _burning_ eye contact. He pushed Q's arms down, pointing the gun at the floor instead of at him, and Q let him. He couldn't move, all of the possibilities flooding through his mind and freezing his muscles.

"You have a very nice life, bonito," Silva said, maintaining his quiet tone. "A high-clearance MI6 job, a doting partner, a lovely apartment, and a cushy side job as a master criminal hacker. It would be a shame for all that to crumble, no? What would happen if your government boyfriend received proof of your dirty deeds? Or the doddering old Q? Or maybe I'll skip all that dramamaybe I'll pay your dear Mr. Holmes a visit-"

The fury came in an instant, his blood boiling, his vision almost whiting out, his hands shaking from the pure rage.

"Threaten him again," Q said, his voice deadly calm, "and I'll rip out your tongue."

Silva leaned back slightly, his eyebrows going up, but he seemed to understand the truth in that statement and nodded. "Do we have a deal, then, Mr. James?"

Q huffed an exasperated laugh. He clicked the safety and tucked his gun back into his holsterthere was no point in having it out now. "A _deal?_ You mean how you won't reveal my secret if I do a job for you?"

The cybercriminal's lips curled up, pleased like the cat that caught the canary, and took another step closer, entering Q's personal space. The hacker didn't allow himself to tense or flinch. He didn't react at all when Silva brushed some hair behind his ear in a far too intimate touch. He didn't react when the elder man's hands landed firmly on his hips, pulling him close.

He didn't react, not the way his racing mind and pulse wanted him to, because that's what Silva was looking for. He wanted to exhibit control, to show how easily he could take Q apart. And he knew, after their last meeting, what a  _huge_ pressure point was.

Well, Q could hold out a bit more. There was no goddamn way he was giving Raoul Fucking Silva  _another_ instance of making him a crying child. Q was sick and tired of it, of being controlled by a couple weeks in his teenage years. So he could wait a little bit to have a panic attack. He could hold it at bay. He could. He was James Moriarty, and the Moriartys could do anything they set their minds to.

So, he simply rose an artful eyebrow.

Silva grinned, delighted. "My, my! Come a long way in seven months, hmm?"

"Are you done?" Q asked in a bored tone. He could feel Silva's crotch against his own and very quickly compartmentalized that feeling away, knowing how fast that train of thought would lead to a full-blown panic attack. "Because I  _do_ have actual work to get to, other than being harassed in my own bedroom-"

That's when Silva kissed him.

No, Q couldn't call it a kiss.  _Mycroft_ kissed him. That girl back in primary school with the pig tails,  _she_ kissed him. Even one or two of his _kidnappers_  kissed him. This? This biting, forceful, aggressive thing Silva was doing? It wasn't a kiss. This was a battle. This was a game, just like the kinds he'd play on his computer against another hacker. This was chicken and Russian roulette. And Q wasn't about to back down.

He could feel Silva's surprised, elated laugh in his bones when Q pushed back, biting at the cybercriminal's lips, clashing their teeth together, thrusting his tongue into the other man's mouth. Silva's grip on his hips tightened to a painful degree and in retaliation Q grabbed a handful of the elder man's hair, yanking at it.

Silva growled into his mouth at that and slammed him against the wall, making Q gasp from the force of it, going a little boneless. Silva took the opening and dove even closer, devouring Q's mouth and pressing his body completely against the younger man's until Q was sure he could go completely limp and still remain exactly where he was, held up solely by Silva's presence.

The cybercriminal made his way down Q's throat, biting and licking and sucking. His breath was hot against Q's already burning skin and when he bit down particularly hard by Q's collarbone, Q wrapped his hands back in the dyed blonde hair and held tightly, tightly enough that he knew some strands were probably coming loose in his grip. Silva didn't seem to mind, mouthing at Q's skin as he undid the buttons of the younger man's shirt.

Q made a strangled sound and threw his head back, banging it against the wall and panting heavily. Silva was on his knees now, his mouth covering Q's abs and sides and hips with the same treatment he'd given Q's neck and mouth. He licked his way to Q's waistband, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there.

That's when reality hit him.

Q sucked in a quick, deep breath, feeling his panic rising. He kicked Silva away from him and slumped against the wall, drawing in breath after breath. His chest was tight, his pulse pounding. His vision blurred between what was right in front of him and what had happened fourteen years ago. The phantom of a calloused hand wrapped around his throat. Echoing voices laughed and jeered.

With a wordless scream, Q slammed a fist against his bedroom wall, punching right through the drywall. The spark of current pain worked as a focal point and he used it to calm himself down.

"Apologies," Silva said, drawing Q's attention back to him. The cybercriminal was sprawled out on the floor, eyes fixed firmly on Q, eyebrows raised slightly. He didn't look apologetic in the slightest. "I was curious to see where your bodyand unconscious mindwould draw the line. How my _intent_ would come across, and all that..." He licked his lips exaggeratedly.

"You wouldn't've-" Q began, still breathing heavily.

"No," Silva disagreed, shaking his head, "I  _would_ have, if you'd let me continue. I would've fucked you over every visible surface, if you hadn't pushed me away. I would've made you come screaming my name." A smug smile pulled at his lips. "But no, that wasn't originally the intent. The kiss was..." He waved a hand through the air, searching for the words to describe the battle he'd been initiating.

"...Not a kiss," Q finished for him, because that's all that needed to be said, because Q's mind had already accepted that information. It's why he hadn't panicked for so long during all of that, not until it became actually intimate. Intimate and...softer.

His legs felt unsteady and he didn't currently have the will power to walk himself over to the bed or desk chair, so instead he simply slid down the wall.

The two hackers stared at each other for a long time. Then, Silva grinned and pushed himself to his feet, straightening his clothes.

"The job is a very simple one, bonito," he said, heading towards the door. "You'll receive a message from me in a few months with an itsy-bitsy request, one that'll take you no more than a few seconds. One small thing and your secret is safe with me forever." He paused in the doorway and looked back at Q with a sly smile. "I do  _so_ look forward to  _working_ with you again." And with one last wink, he was out the door.

Q stayed right where he was for another couple minutes, simply processing, and then he banged his hand against the floor.

 _"Shit,"_ he cursed, hating himself for his own stupidity. Using his 'real' goddamn name. What kind of thoughtless BS- "Shit, shit,  _shit._ _"_

* * *

The problem with having a battle of wills that included biting was that the marks it left behind looked identical to hickies.

Go figure.

And the  _problem_ with them looking like hickies was that he was in a serious, monogamous relationship, and Mycroft was not the one to have sucked the bruises into Q's neck. Q doubted Mycroft would accept the real story (and fuck, it's not like Q could actually _tell_ him!) so that put him in a bit of a challenging situation.

Incredibly lucky for him, MI6 was very busy for the next week or so following Silva's visit, which provided a reasonable,  _useful_ excuse to not go see his partner. Of course that couldn't last long, and definitely not as long as the bruises would remain, but it allowed Q a few days to breathe and try to think of something that would explain it without hurting Mycroft.

(And over that time, he most definitely did  _not_ consider how far Silva had gotten before true panic set in, how it had taken a moment of gentleness for the flashbacks to take over, how Q had pulled the older man closer and arched into the pain he delivered. He didn't understand how his brain made sense of it, how his mind accepted it as something completely different, how the violence didn't immediately pull him right back into his trauma. No, he most certainly did  _not_ let himself think about it.)

But the meeting had to happen eventually, and so when things died down slightly at work and he received a call from Mycroft inviting him over for dinner, Q couldn't say no, thrumming with anxiety the entire ride to his partner's place as he tried to think of something to say.

He could use the excuse that he'd done a brief undercover mission that required him getting close to someone in the biblical sense, but that wouldn't work at allfirst, Mycroft would know whether or not he'd been sent on a mission of that kind; second, Q's position as R made him specifically  _not_ a field agent, and thus not one to be chosen for any kind of honeytrap operation; and third, Mycroft knew how he reacted to personal touchthere was  _no way_ Q would've agreed to such a mission.

(Unless, Q thought wryly, it was his brother asking.)

There was one excuse that would work brilliantly, but considering everything Q had  _actually_ been through in his life he was loathe to use it. It was a get-out-of-jail free card, a play that would have Mycroft dropping the subject and never touching it again. Q would have to deal with some heartbroken looks for a while, he was sure, but he wouldn't be accused of cheating...

It was a truly awful idea, and Q didn't want to use it. It was wrong, and made light of the seriousness of his past. But.

Q let himself into Mycroft's home with the key he had, fiddling with it as he entered. He could hear his partner moving about in the kitchen and smiled sadly; this man truly loved him, and he'd done something so fucking stupid which meant adding another lie to the pile.

"James?" Mycroft called out for confirmation, probably having heard the door open and shut.

"It's me," Q replied, shrugging out of his jacket and setting his bag down. He toed off his shoes and went over to the plush armchair to curl up and prepare for the awful conversation that was about to occur. Glancing around, he caught his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and winced at the dark bruises noticeable if he pulled his shirt collar down just a little.

"How are you?" Mycroft asked, entering the room with a soft smile. "I haven't seen you in-" He stopped talking, and Q didn't have to guess why. The hacker stared at the floor, and got ready for a serious bit of acting that would make him hate himself just a little.

"Would you like to offer me an explanation, or are we going to pretend like you didn't just turn up with giant hickies?" Mycroft prompted. His voice was chilly, but Q could hear a genuine curiosityand  _hope_ about whatever excuse Q was going to put forth.

Q curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his midsection and willing the burn of tears into his eyes. His hands shook, and he hoarsely whispered the three words that would seal his fate: "It happened again."

In the silence that followed, Q could've heard a tissue hit the floor.

He wasn't looking at Mycroft, but Q knew that the man was trying to make sense of the bomb that had just been dropped in his lap. He was going over that sentence over and over again, examining Q's body language until every aspect was memorized, trying and failing to come up with something to say in response to the unbelievably manipulative thing Q was doing.

"Who?" Mycroft finally settled on, and his voice was deadly calm, completely forced. He was barely containing himself, his rage was so strong.

"Do you remember when I mentioned running into someone I used to work with when I was freelance?" Q mumbled in response, because he might as well blame the fake version of Silva for what _actually_ happened with Silva. "Well, he caught up with me again, and..." This was absolutely horrible, what he was doing. Absolutely horrible. This was so fucked up.

"Give me a name," Mycroft said, and Q knew he was asking so he could find the man and torture him to death.

Because of that, Q looked up at his partner with a tired smile. Mycroft looked _wretched._ His eyes were haunted, sad and angry and lost. His posture was tense as a live wire and his hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn't quite know what to do with them. The muscles in his jaw kept flexing.

"Dead already, love, but I appreciate the sentiment," Q said quietly.

"You appreciate the-" Mycroft cut himself off, looking at Q incredulously. "No, you  _appreciated the sentiment_ when what happened was eleven years in the past and I wanted to hunt them all down. But thisthis  _just happened._ This is... _fuck,_ this is brand new, and you can't justit's notit's not a  _sentiment,_ it's a fully-fledged  _need,_ not even mentioning how a crime was just perpetrated and it's my job to get those responsible! And what do you mean  _dead already?_ What happened,  _when_ did it happen, are you ok, why is-"

"Mycroft," Q interrupted loudly, getting to his feet. His partner's jaw snapped shut. "He. Is. Dead. That's all you're getting, because I can't...I'm not..." He took a shuddering breath and squinted to the side. "I'm alive and mostly unharmed, he's dead, and it's  _over._ Please, Mycroft, just let it be over."

His partner walked towards him and reached out, before hesitating, unsure of himself and what to do. Q licked his lips and glanced around, and then slowly inched forward, leaning his forehead against Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft didn't move for a moment, but then wrapped loose arms around Q, easy to pull out of should the hacker wish to.

Q let out a shuddering breath and relaxed minutely. At least the worst was out of the way.

* * *

Jim laughed. For a very long time.

Q stared at his brother with an unimpressed expression, waiting for Jim to get it out of his system.

"So let me clarify," Jim said when the laughter had subsided to bursts of giggles. His eyes were alight with mirth.

"Alright," Q replied with a roll of his eyes, "Go ahead."

"Raoul Silva broke into your flat."

"Yes."

"And was lying in your bed."

"Yes."

"And began to blackmail you."

"Yes."

"And then kissed you." Seeing Q open his mouth to rebuttal, Jim rolled his eyes and corrected, "Fine, fine, and then he forcefully pressed his mouth to yours in the best battle of wills game I've ever seen."

Q sighed. Heavily. Then said, "Yes."

"And then you kissorry, sorry, you  _participated_ in this delicious little match."

"...Yes."

Jim crowed with delight. Q scoffed in exasperation.

"Ok, ok, can we move on now?" Q grumbled, crossing his arm grumpily.

"I'm just  _impressed_ with you, darling, that's all!" Jim said, still grinning. "You got down and dirty with someonewith  _Rodriguez_ of all people!and then made up a fairly fucked up story for your boyfriend to explain it away! I'm simply  _impressed."_ His joyful grin stayed firmly in place, but his eyes softened a little. "And you are... _alright,_ yes? You're not..."

"I'm fine," Q said, and was surprised by how much he meant it. "I still don't...well, I still don't  _understand,_ but I'm fine, really."

Jim stared at him for a moment longer and then accepted that as the truth.

* * *

On Q and Mycroft's third anniversary a few months later, someone blew up MI6.

There were bombs throughout the building, one smack dab in the middle of Q-branch. Q was thrown off his feet in the blast, landing twenty feet away and gasping for air as the impact forced all the air from his lungs. His chest burned like hell and he could feel liquid _(blood,_ he identified distantly) rolling down his face. There was smoke everywhere, and fire, and people screaming all around him.

And that was before the ceiling gave way.

Q cried out as the sky started falling and pushed himself quickly to his feet, staggering as his vision blurred and his head spun. A chunk of concrete fell and he dodged out of the way, right into the path of another one that slammed into his back and left his entire spine tingling. Q grunted and fell to his knees, sucking in large gulps of air that made his chest hurt with every heavy movement.

The smoke was beginning to fill the room and Q hastily pulled the top of his sweater over his mouth before hauling himself back to a standing position. He fought the urge to vomit.

 _I need to find an exit,_ Q thought wildly, glancing around, but it was nearly impossible to see anything with all the smoke, and Q's eyes were starting to sting. He began stumbling in the general direction of the door and sent a silent prayer to a god he really didn't believe in that the exit hadn't been blocked by debris.

He knew the floorplan of the MI6 building like the back of his hand and so he moved as quickly as he could towards the nearest stairwell, knowing not to trust an elevator in a fire. The first stairwell he came across was collapsed and he felt his anxiety start to spike, starting to realize there was a possibility he wasn't going to make it out of the building alive.

He couldn't just  _give up_ and accept that, though, so he started moving again. His vision was beyond blurry, his head was throbbing, his chest was on fire, and he felt like he was going to throw up, but he kept walking, picturing the next stairwell in his mind like a lifeline.

Q let out a sob of relief when he got there and saw that, except for a bit of damage, the stairs were perfectly safe enough to go down and get out of the building. A couple other people, he found, had the same idea, and he and a girl used each other to support themselves all the way down until they made it out into the fresh, clean outside.

Collapsing to his knees and utterly exhausted, Q let the first paramedics that reached him put him on a stretcher and take him to the hospital with barely any fussing.

The doctors took him for a million tests, but nothingsave a good chunk of smoke inhalationwas actually life-threatening (mild concussion, three cracked ribs, a bruised spine), and they did have a lot of patients who were in dire need of care. Thus, they left him with an oxygen mask and instructions to grab a doctor or nurse if the pain in his lungs started to get worse instead of better.

About half an hour after he arrived, Alec did, taking up position next to his bedside like a guardian and looking him over for anything to be truly concerned about. Apparently the Double-Oh had been getting coffee when everything went to shit, and was simply one lucky bastard. Jim had called him and (frantically, according to Alec's dry account) instructed him to guard Q's back, but Alec made it clear that he'd already been on his way to do just that.

The loyalty of Alec and Sebastian always seemed to catch Q off-guard. Or maybe it was just the concussion.

Ten minutes after Alec's arrival came M and Tanner, walking up to Q's hospital bed with sharp purpose. M glanced him over with a critical eye and Q waited patiently for whatever it was she had to say.

"Major Boothroyd is dead," she reported matter-of-factly, as was her way. "Which means we now need you,  _Quartermaster."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ex nihilo nihil fit: A Latin phrase meaning "out of nothing comes nothing"
> 
> Deartháir: Irish Celtic for "Brother"
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	10. Skyfall Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q actually becomes Q, James Bond steps onto the board, and Raoul Silva gets what's coming to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bunch of dialogue taken straight from "Skyfall" but I also added a lot AROUND the dialogue to make it my own.
> 
> Now, into the action! Hope you guys enjoy!

"James Bond isn't dead," Tanner said in an exasperated tone as he entered Q's office and threw himself down on the small couch.

Q frowned at his laptop and then glanced up, looking Tanner over critically. It didn't seem like the man had had a psychotic break, though it was always possible. Then again, Bond was Double-Oh-Seven, best of the best, and it wasn't really a stretch to believe that the man had somehow survived.

The weird part, though, was that it had been  _three months_ since James Bond was shot from the roof of a trainwhere had the man been all that time? What the fuck had he been doing that was more important? If the answer was sipping Mai Tais on a tropical beach, Q was going to ring the man's neck. They were kind of  _busy_ at MI6, if the agent hadn't noticed, and they could all fucking rest when they were  _actually_ dead.

"Well," Q said brightly, "after M's done squeezing his balls for being a massive twat, I'd like to see his test scores. Where the bloody hell has he been, anyway?"

Tanner shrugged helplessly. "Wasn't told, didn't ask. The man's always been challenging, so I can't quite say I'm  _surprised,_ but no clue what he's been up to. I'll have them send over the scores, and then M wants to send him to you so you can outfit him for a missionhe's going after our terrorist, and will need a weapon and travel documents to Shanghai."

"And a tracker," Q muttered, shaking his head. Tanner laughed. "I'm tempted to simply inject one into him. Oh, there's a thought..." Q turned back to his desk, writing out some basic ideas on his notepad about an injectable tracer for agentsinto the bloodstream, maybe? Yes, that could work...

"Q," Tanner grabbed his attention, and his expression was amused when the younger man looked back to him. "I'll just send him down when he's done, yea?"

"Oh, heavens no!" Q disagreed, scoffing. Tanner rose an eyebrow. "No, I remember the hurricane that is James Bond around Q-Branch; I'm going to push off that man entering my domain for as long as I can, at least until I've actually calmed everyone down and gained control. No, instead I'll send you a location and you can have him meet me there."

Tanner chuckled and nodded, standing to leave. "Whatever you say, Quartermaster."

Q stared at the door for another moment, a smirk taking over his features, before turning back to his laptop. "I rather like the sound of that."

* * *

James Bond had been something of an enigma for Q for a long time.

Working as second-in-command in Q-Branch for as long as he did meant that he'd met Double-Oh-Seven on more than one occasion, but he'd never had a real conversation with the man, past handing over some devices with instructions and then a few flirtatious comments thrown his way (seeing as James Bond flirted with everything that moved).

Frankly Q didn't spend a lot of time thinking about James Bond seeing as he wasn't incredibly relevant to the hacker's life when he wasn't knocking about Moriarty interests. Double-Oh-Seven was an incredibly competent agent and would be a serious threat if he went after the _Moriarty_ name full-throttle, but as-was he was not worth more than a passing glance.

That did not mean, however, that Q wasn't the teensiest bit  _curious._

Back when he'd first joined MI6, Q had gotten Alec to give him a pretty thorough rundown on all of the active field agents at MI6. There were two people Alec had been very hesitant to talk aboutCassandra Cane aka 009, and James Bond. Q had done his best to respect the clear boundary because Trevelyan was a new and useful asset and anything Alec didn't want to give Q could pretty much find out from the MI6 database.

But in the eight years he'd been in Q-Branch there was one giant thing he'd always been curious about: What was the  _click_ for Bond? What was the moment or feeling or person that made him look at England and decide  _Yes, I would kill, torture, harm, and steal for this country, possibly even give my life._

Now, that wasn't to say Q didn't understand patriotism, because he did. He didn't  _feel_ it, per say, but he understood it as a motivation. And so the thing was, if James Bond was simply a very patriotic fellow,  _when the fuck did he become such?_

He was a rich boy with a tragic childhood who joined the military because it was simply the continuation of what he'd been doing in school. He didn't go to the navy because he felt an overwhelming desire to do  _good,_ he did it because that was the next step in a lifelong career planned out for him from the get-go. But joining MI6, becoming a goddamn _Double-Oh agent?_ That required actual belief, actual faith, actual  _Queen and Country Loyalty._

Plus of course there was then the matter of Vesper Lynd to think about.

And then apparently he'd spent three months letting his nation believe he was dead instead of doing his job, so there was  _that_ to consider as well.

Q was simply _curious,_ is all.

Before the meeting, Q grabbed one of the new handprint guns he'd been working ona Walther, actually, Bond's preferred typeand coded it to the print listed in Bond's file, then put together a passport and purchased a plane ticket to Shanghai. He briefly considered getting a regular coach seat, simply for the hell of it, but he figured there was no reason to be petty quite yet. Maybe later.

After everything was ready he sent a message to Tanner with his choice of meeting venue. Then, feeling the pettiness rise up, he sent a follow-up text for the specific painting he'd meeting Bond in front of, smirking all the while.

When Q got to the National Gallery, Room 34, Bond was already there, sitting on a bench in front of  _The Fighting Temeraire_ and examining it with a vague frown.

He looked old, Q realized, and had a moment of amusement wondering what Bond saw when he looked at the painting. Tired, too; there were slight bags under his eyes, as well as more defined wrinkles on his cheeks than had been there the last time Q saw the man. The scruff of a beard looked unkempt, too, instead of attractive. At least, Q considered wryly, he still looked damn good in a suit.

Casually, Q made his way over, sitting down next to Bond on the bench and examining the painting himself. Bond's eyes flicked briefly over to him and then away, clearly dismissive of the lanky, glasses-wearing, late-twenties man that had just joined him. Q held in a sigh and prepared himself for some definite ageism. Well, two could always play at that game.

"It always makes me feel a little melancholy," Q murmured, tilting his head slightly, "a grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap." Bond let out a soft, annoyed breath. Q ignored it, sighing softly, and continued, "The inevitability of time, don't you think?" He turned to look at Bond then, resisting a smile, and a then back to the painting. Genuinely curious, he asked, "What do you see?"

Clearly having had just about enough of the random man talking to him, Bond murmured, "A bloody big ship. Excuse me," and began to get up.

"Double-Oh-Seven," Q called, not looking away from the painting. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Bond freeze, then sigh as he sat back down. "I'm your new Quartermaster."

Bond's lips parted and he seemed to resist rolling his eyes. "You must be joking."

"Why, because I'm not wearing a labcoat?" Q asked, unbothered. He'd dealt with many people questioning his competence because of his age through his life, and condescension from James Bloody Bond was not going to ruin his day.

"Because you still have  _spots,"_ Bond shot back, a little annoyed.

Q's lips twitched. "My complexion is hardly relevant."

On a breath, Bond said, "Your competency is."

Q sighed lightly, still staring at the painting. "Age is no guarantee of efficiency."

Bond's response was instant. "And youth is no guarantee of innovation."

It was Q's turn to resist rolling his eyes. "I'd hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pajamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field."

Bond's lips twitched into a smile as the hacker spoke, and then he replied, "Oh, so why do you need me?"

Q paused, and then shrugged slightly, a ghost of a smile on his face. "Every now and then a trigger has to be pulled," he said dryly.

"Or not pulled," Bond murmured, turning to look at Q and examining him intensely. Q stared at the painting. "It's hard to know in your pajamas."

Q turned to look at him, meeting the icy blue eyes, and felt a strange sense of comradery, of  _understanding,_ come over him. Bond smiled, and Q smiled back.

"Q," Bond said, offering his hand.

"Double-Oh-Seven," Q acknowledged in turn, shaking his hand. His palm was thick with callouses but smoothed over by time. They stayed in that moment for a few more before releasing, both of them glancing away simultaneously. Q turned his attention to the package he'd brought with him, pulling the papers out of his inside jacket pocket.

Bond had at least kept enough of his manners in his time away to thank Q for the ticket and documentation, and when the hacker passed over the gun, he held his breath; this was his personal invention, something he'd truly  _created_ and he'd be very irritated with the Double-Oh if he just dismissed it as just another gun.

"Walther PPK/S 9 millimeter short," he murmured, staring down at the handgun as Bond examined it. It was a gorgeous weapon, truly; in his mind, Q was already going over ways to improve. "There's a micro-dermal sensor in the grip." He looked back at the painting, and Bond turned to look at him. "It's been coded to your palmprint so only you can fire it. Less of a random killing machine, and more of a personal statement."

The agent nodded slowly, and there was tilt to his lips resembling approval, a flash in his eyes that seemed impressed. Q resisted a smirk.

"And this?" Bond asked, pointing to the empty space in the gun case.

Q explained the radio transmitter and enjoyed the look he got from Bond when he said, "Were you expecting an exploding pen? We don't really go in your that anymore."

Q got up to leave, taking a few steps before turning back to face Bond. "Good luck out there in the field. And," he added, a hint of a smirk on his face, "please return the equipment in one piece. You do have such a bad habit in that department." Then he nodded once, quickly, and turned to go. He could feel Bond's eyes on him for a few more seconds and smirked to himself.

 _Here we go,_ he thought, and pulled out his phone to text Jim.

* * *

See, the thing was, Q didn't much care about the fact that the list had been stolen and some terrorist had now decrypted and posted the first five names. It really didn't matter to him, and if it wasn't required for him to play his role, he would've dropped searching for it  _ages_ ago.

Well, that wasn't _quite_ true. Q was a territorial man, he'd admit it, and someonesomeone very  _good_ at what they didwas encroaching on his territory. He wasn't a fan of that, so he'd probably track down the person just so he could take them out even if he didn't have to for MI6.

But at the moment he had a _bigger_ problem on his hands.

Such as his brother thinking about accepting a business proposal from a shady, criminal organization.

"You're  _joking,_ right? Why would you think meeting with this  _Emilio Largo_ is a good idea?"

"It's not," Jim replied, smiling as he agreed. Q blinked. Jim's smile grew. "Ye of little faith! Brother mine, I have no intent of linking us to Largo and his vaguely creepy bosshonestly the two names thing is weird; why change from  _Franz_ to  _Ernst,_ that's not betterbut it is worth checking out. _You_ were the one saying you wanted to keep an eye on this, yes?"

Q sighed, exasperated. "I  _meant_ that we should be watchful of the fact that there seems to be a similar criminal organization playing out in the world, and we should be wary of them messing with our things.  _Not_ that we should accept a meeting with their second-in-command and pretend as if we  _want_ to be a part of their cult-like enterprises." He wrinkled his nose. The very  _idea_ of serving anyone but himself and Jim was horrifying.

Jim nodded, pursing his lips in thought. "I want to get a good idea of what they're like, though," he said, tipping his head back to look up at the sky. "Gage how high our level of concern should be, see how easy it would be to wipe them off the board in the eventuality of needing to do that. Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy." He glanced over at Q, raising his eyebrows. "Thoughts?"

After a moment, Q nodded. Jim wanted to check this out, and he had to admit that it wasn't an awful idea. Still; Q didn't like the thought of putting themselves out there with a criminal organization they didn't control. Too many variables, too much room for error. But nonetheless it was something worth looking into.

And if something went  _wrong?_ Well, Jim was right; they'd just have to wipe SPECTRE off the map.

"Q," Alec called out, and the hacker turned to look at the Double-Oh as he approached. Sebastian was currently on a mission, which meant that Alec was acting as Jim's shadow and bodyguard, because the Irishman had a tendency to get himself into trouble, and was now a rather famous criminal.

"Yes?" Q asked, raising a prompting eyebrow.

"M got a messageseems the terrorist has said that he'll be releasing five names on the list each week; the five he just put online are only the start."

Q sighed, looking skyward. This  _terrorist_ was really getting on his nerves. Couldn't the world stay safe for five minutes so that  _he_ could be the one wreaking havoc? He missed the good old days, when the only people capable of this much damage with this much efficiency was him and Jim.

"Right," he said, nodding. "Well, I've already sent Moneypenny off to Shanghai to tell Bond about the first five names, and M wants her to help any way she bloody can, so this'll just be one more wonderful thing she can tell him."

He opened his phone, pulled up an encrypted connection, and sent off the message to the ex-field agent. Q rather liked Moneypenny; she was clever, skilled, witty, and gorgeousif she hadn't shot the best Double-Oh off a train, she probably would've had a very promising career in espionage.

* * *

Q was in the hub of Q-Branch when Bond's radio went off, and he immediately put in a call to M, who then scrambled a team to retrieve him.

Everyone at MI6 knew that Bond wouldn't have signaled for them unless he knew he'd be fine and wanted them to pick up the bad guy, so Q simply sat back and waited, curious to find out who this person was that had caused them so much trouble.

He should've remembered the saying  _careful what you wish for,_ because watching a team of highly-trained MI6 operative bring in Raoul Silva felt like the universe was truly out to personally get him.

Silva glanced at him, ever-so-briefly, and winked before they rounded the corner, vanishing from Q's sight. The hacker scowled; there was no way this day could get

Nope. No, he wasn't going to say it. He refused to jinx himself  _again._

He watched the security feed on his laptop as Silva talked to M, one headphone in, the other ear free to listen for any problems that would arise in his branch. But a majority of his attention was on Silva's recounting, on the interesting story of his torture and imprisonment. Q had never much cared about the torture the cybercriminal had hinted at to him, but it was still fascinating to learn what would twist someone's mind so thoroughly.

And it really had twisted his mind. Tiago Rodriguez had gone from a well-respected MI6 operative to a prisoner to a madman obsessed with revenge. Q wondered how he hadn't seen it before, Silva's hyper-fixation. The older man had done a good job of concealing his true motivations, but not any longer.

And Q was going to enjoy watching him be put down.

Despite his distaste for the man, he couldn't help but be thoroughly intrigued when Silva removed the plating from his face, revealing the grotesque features that had been caused by breaking his cyanide capsule. He glanced to where Bond stood in the feed, and saw that the Double-Oh looked mildly fascinated, too. M seemed deeply disturbed at the results of her good work.

After M and Bond left the cell, Silva sat calmly for a few moments before he looked up to the security camera and began to laugh. He licked his lips and mouthed  _See that, bonito?_

Q scowled and shut the feed, turning around the get to work. They'd brought him a majority of Silva's electronics, including the criminal's personal laptop. Q had barely glanced over at the thing when his phone buzzed. Absently he glanced down to see who the text was from, and his breath caught in his throat.

 _Remember that job you owe me?_  
_Plug the laptop into the main system._  
_Then your secret will be safe with me._

Q glanced at the mentioned piece of technology, and wondered briefly who Silva had gotten to send the message, seeing as the cybercriminal definitely didn't have access to a phone at the moment.

And then, Q debated. Because, it'd be easy. He'd connect Silva's laptop to the system and it would just appear to be a stupid oversight with all the chaos going on. No one would _actually_ think that Q was working with  _Silva;_ no, he'd been an amazing, loyal agent his entire time at MI6, far as they knewthey wouldn't even look at him as a suspect. And then his secret would be safe.

But alsothis could backfire on him quite spectacularly.

With a slow sigh, Q did as instructed, plugging the laptop in and projecting it to the main screen. He scowled, hating the fact that he was doing _anything_ for Raoul Fucking Silva, but there was no point wallowing, especially not when James Bond appeared, looking like a man on a mission.

And then, Q had to do everything within his power not to break down laughing hysterically, because Silva was using  _his_ failsafe protocols on his laptop, the ones Q had invented, the ones Q had shown the man, way back when they met. The goddamn  _irony_ of the situation was most certainly not lost on Q, and he barely managed to hold up his end of the conversation with Bond.

"I invented them," he told the Double-Oh primly, turning back to face the computer. He caught sight of Bond smiling in the corner of his eye.

Q went through the motions, found Silva's most encrypted level _("It's like solving a Rubik's Cube that's fighting back,")_ , opened up the map of London's underground, and  _then the doors started opening._

Q turned angrily towards Silva's laptop, hating the fact that this probably meant Silva was escaping. His mood was certainly not improved by the words that then appeared on the computer screen:  _Not such a clever boy._

 _Fuck,_ how Q hated the man.

He sent off a quick text Jim, alerting him of the situation, and then after a brief hesitation, he sent one to Mycroft as well.

 _"Q, he's gone,"_ Bond murmured into his earpiece, and Q put it on speaker for easier convenience.

What then followed was just about some of the most stressful fifteen minutes of Q's life. He led Bond through the tunnels after Silva, trying to figure out his game, trying to head the criminal off. But they'd been one step behind this entire time; this was  _years_ in the planning, down to the smallest of details.

Q seriously hated being used, and that's what had happened. Everything he'd done for Silva, everything Silva had done  _to_ himit must've been all planned out, all calculated. Silva had had a goal in mind, and he hadn't wanted to leave anything to chance. It was fucking brilliantly done, and Q _hated_ it.

Watching Bond jump onto a moving train was pretty cool, though.

 _"He's going for M,"_ Bond realized on a breath. "Alert Tanner, get her out of there."

Q did immediately, and also sent a message to Mycroft. He didn't know if Mycroft was at the hearing, but it was probable, and Mycroft knew how to get things  _done._ He'd make sure M wasn't killed on his watch. Q just hoped that didn't mean his partner would do something stupid like risk his own life.

Remembering something, Q jerked his own laptop towards himself and pulled up the grid section where the hearing was happening. From there it was easy to access the security system of the building, and with a triumphant smile he saw that  _yes,_ there was a security camera in the courtroom.

Pulling up the feed, Q watched M begin on a speech about why MI6 was still needed, despite the minister's determination to say otherwise. Sure enough, Mycroft was there, sitting off to the side and watching the proceedings with an almost single-minded determination. He kept glancing at the exits, though, and at one point he very calmly stood up and walked over to the rows behind the witness table, taking a seat between M and the door.

"You better fucking not," Q muttered, and then sent those exact words as a text to Mycroft.

He watched Mycroft pull his phone out of his pocket, read the message, blink in surprise, and then turn to look directly into the security camera. He gave a small, reassuring smile, which didn't reassure Q in the slightest.

That's when the doors burst open.

Everyone in the room jerked around in surprise, just in time to see Raoul Silva leveling a gun at M's head. It would've been a kill shot, if Mycroft hadn't stood up right in that moment and taken the bullet.

Q let out an involuntary, strangled sound, watching as the man he loved dropped to the ground, blood spreading.

Gareth Mallory took a bullet, security guards and police began shooting back, James Bond arrived, Moneypenny took out a few hostilesall of this went on while Mycroft Holmes, the practical head of the British government, lay bleeding on the ground, overlooked and forgotten.

Bond shot the fire extinguishers, and everything went white.

Q didn't know what to do. He didn't. He. What could he.

He turned to the screen, looking at Bond's moving dot, and saw that it overlapped with M's car. He picked up his phone and harshly jammed Bond's number, his fingers shaking.

After a few, painful moments, the Double-Oh answered.  _"Look, Q-"_

"Give M the phone," he said, his tone cold and brokering no argument.

There was a brief pause, then a rustling noise, and then M crisply said,  _"Yes, Quartermaster?"_ It sounded like speaker phone, which meant Bond was still listening. Q couldn't have given less of a fuck in that moment.

"Was he alive when you left him?" Q demanded.

 _"Q-"_ M began.

"No," he interrupted harshly. "He was lying on the ground right next to you, you  _have_ to know. He-he took a  _bullet_ for you, M. You  _have_ to know if he's still alive." Q's voice broke on the last word.

 _"I don't know,"_ M replied, in that terse tone of hers that she used when she felt bad about something but didn't want to show it. She'd used the same tone with Silva barely hours ago. _"There was a shoot-out going on, Q. I didn't have time to-"_

"Bullshit!" Q shouted back, and then lowered his voice when he saw some of the Q-branchers give him startled, worried looks. "He was lying _right in front of you,_ bleeding out. Mycroft Holmes was dying, and you didn't have  _time?_ That man has saved our assesthe _world's_ asses!more times than I can  _count_ and you couldn't spare two bloody seconds to check for a _pulse?"_

 _"Quartermaster,"_ M said in a sharp tone,  _"watch yourself, you still work for me."_ Q seethed, picturing her dead at his feet for a moment. Barely a second, but the image was viciously comforting.

 _"Q."_ It was Bond this time, his smooth voice oddly reassuring.  _"I need help; we're about to disappear."_

In that moment, Q considered saying  _no._ Just ending the call, disabling the tracker in the company car, not telling anyone about this little conversation. If M died then she died, and if she survived, wellthere was a bug in their system, after all; the call could've simply  _cut off._ He certainly hadn't done it on purpose, or anything.

"What do you need?" Q asked through gritted teeth.

_"I need you to lay a trail of breadcrumbs impossible to follow for anyone except Silva. Think you can do that?"_

Of course he could fucking do it, but he certainly didn't want to. And by the sound of it, this wasn't strictly official. It would be so goddamn easy to leave them to burn.

But if Mycroft

If Mycroft was dead, then Silva needed to die, plain and simple. Q's revenge on M for leaving Mycroft behind was second to revenge on Silva for actually  _shooting_ his partner.

"Of course I can bloody well do it," he muttered, already pulling his device towards him and getting to work.

 _"Thank you, Q,"_ Bond murmured softly, his voice gentle, and Q ended the call before he did something stupid like start yelling at M again or burst into tears.

* * *

Q sent everyone home, and was unsurprised when Tanner arrived, just smiling at Q when he started trying to make up some excuse.

"I'm loyal to M," the older man said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "I don't give a shit if the Powers That Be don't think we _you_ should do this; she and Bond need our help, and just like you, I'll do whatever I can." Then he looked at the screen, glancing over what Q was working on. "So! What's the plan?"

Tanner was a good man to have watching your back, simply because he was a  _good man._ He was loyal and smart, and he wouldn't point fingers if someone came knocking. Which did end up happening, Gareth Mallory walking right in and spotting what they were doing.

Q was pretty surprised when Mallory said, "Excellent thinking," and started to contribute some actually helpful advice. Just as Mallory turned to go, he paused, and looked at Q with a serious gaze. "Quartermaster?"

Turning his attention back to his supervisor from where it had been drifting towards the screen, Q looked to Mallory questioningly. "Yes, sir?"

"Mycroft Holmes is alive. The damage is extensive and he's currently still in surgery, but it seems like he's going to survive this."

Q's knees felt weak, and he pulled out a chair to sit in before he collapsed right to the ground.  _"Fuck,"_ he breathed, feeling such overwhelming _relief,_ his hands shaking. Mallory smiled kindly at him, and Tanner was grinning; the man had always liked Mycroft.

"Alright, back to it," Mallory said, nodding at them in approval, and then he turned to leave. Q watched him go, feeling incredibly grateful that the man had told him about Mycroft's condition. Briefly, Q wondered how Mallory even  _knew_ about them, but considering M knew and it  _was_ an organizations of spies, Q really couldn't be too surprised.

* * *

When Q's phone rang with a blocked ID, he knew exactly who it was.

"You shot Mycroft," Q said, not giving the other person a chance to speak first.

Raoul Silva hummed, acknowledging. _"He got in the way."_

Q smiled without humor. Still just a game to him. But not to Q.

"I want you to know something," Q murmured, "before James Bond kills you."

 _"Oh?"_ Silva asked on a breath. _"And might I just say, that I find your lack of faith in me_ disheartening, _bonito. I will not be the one dying tonight."_

"Oliver James is an alias," Q said, ignoring the older man's comments.

He glanced around his little Q-branch, empty save him. Tanner left a while ago, after Q convinced him that their work was done and there was no need to stick around. Q wanted to wait out the results alone and in peace. He wanted to be able to grin when he received the news that Raoul Silva was dead, and he couldn't do that with an actual MI6 agent next to him.

Silva was dead silent on the other end of the line, probably trying to think through how he'd missed that Oliver James wasn't a fully-fledged human. The man shouldn't feel too bad, though; Q was better than everyone at what he did. If Mycroft Holmes and Olivia Mansfield couldn't figure out the truth, then Tiago Rodriguez didn't stand a chance.

The reminder of Mycroft made Q taste something sour. He was still in surgery, or so the secure, online hospital system said. Silva was the one to put him there.

 _"Very_ interesting, _my dear_  Oliver," Silva purred. _"You wished me to know that about you? I'm touched. I always_ knew _we had a special something."_

Q smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. It wouldn't until the older man was dead.

"Tell me, Tiago," he said, and heard the other man's breath shudder. Yes, being confronted with who you truly were was a staggering thing, he imagined. He'd find out first-hand soon enough. "Why do you think I hold such a high position in Moriarty's network?"

Once again, Silva was silent. He then said, his voice almost too low to hear, _"What's your real name?"_

"James Moriarty." He heard Silva choke on air, and his smile grew. He stared at nothing, building destruction in his mind.

He hadn't used that name in just about eleven years, almost twelve. It felt odd to say, to claim it as his own after so long of pretending it didn't exist. His pulse started to speed up, his fingers tingling.

"You see, Tiago, I enjoyed this little game of ours for a moment or two somewhere along the line. But overall...you've been a thorn in my side. And in a few hours, you will be dead, because only fools bet against James Bond. And I wanted you to  _know_ this, Tiago; I wanted you to realize who you've been screwing with. I wanted you to know that I've already begun dismantling every single thing you've worked so hard to build.

"I wanted you to know that you've been  _beaten."_

There was a terrible silence, then, and Q let it reign, unbothered. Silva was a dead man walking. If Bond didn't finish the jobwhich he surely wouldSebastian and a team of loyal men were waiting in the Scottish highlands to put a bullet in Silva's brain.

This phone call? Q telling Silva all these things? It was simply for Q's own satisfaction.

And then, Silva began to laugh. The full-bodied, shaking with it kind, and Q just blinked absently while the man got it out of his system.

 _"Oh my,"_ Silva said on a laugh. _"Oh my, oh my. It seems I greatly underestimated the wolf, hmmm? Here I was thinking you were more lamb...What a mistake of mine."_ He let out a slow breath, his laughter fading. _"What a mistake of everyone's, yes? Oh, my darling bonito. Well done."_

Q chuckled, shaking his head. "Enjoy your last few hours on this earth, Tiago. I hope you're happy with the life you've lived."

 _"Would've been happier to have you in my bed,"_ Silva quipped, and Q just rolled his eyes, feeling a strange lack of animosity.

The line fell silent, but not dead. He could hear the other man breathing on the other end, could hear the sound of helicopter blades, and just waited. Silva would hang up when the final show was about to begin, and not a moment sooner. Q found that he didn't mind.

 _"Goodbye, James,"_ Silva murmured after about fifteen more minutes. _"In the possibility that you are wrong and I survive this, I will come find you after. I think we should have a_ long _drink together. I'd imagine we'd have quite a lot to talk about._ "

Q sighed, tilting his head back and examining the stone patterns on the ceiling. A smile curled his lips. "Goodbye, Tiago."

* * *

When the call came in half an hour later that Raoul Silva was dead, that James Bond was the one to kill him, Q wasn't the slightest bit surprised.

And so he sat in his empty Q-branch, drank a glass of nice scotch, and grinned his fool head off, before he picked himself up and made his way over to the hospital to be with his partner.

Mycroft was out of surgery now, but still unconscious, and Q made his way silently into the private room. There was a plainclothes guard stationed in the hallway, doing a pretty good job of pretending like he wasn't MI5, but Q offered him a smile all the same; he was there protecting Mycroft, even with the threat gone. Loyalty like that was hard to come by.

Something slightly surprising was the fact that Sherlock was passed out in an uncomfortable-looking chair at Mycroft's bedside, curled up in a manner that didn't seem possible considering his size. Q wondered briefly how long the younger Holmes had been here, because Sherlock was really not one to stay by someone in the hospital, let alone his brother.

Just then, as if sensing Q's thoughts about him, Sherlock's eyes blinked open tiredly, and the detective squinted at the hacker through his fringe.

"Did you get them?" he asked, his voice low and rough with sleep.

Q nodded. "Each and every one involved is now dead. I'm going to spend the next few days getting rid of every aspect of the small organization Mycroft's shooter was in charge of. Soon enough he'll be nothing more than a phantom."

Sherlock's lips curled up slightly. "I hope you're aware how terrifying you can sound like that."

Q smiled back at him. "I'm aware. Now, go on home. I'll stay with him." Then, Q realized why Sherlock was here; he didn't trust any government employees right now, no matter if they appeared thoroughly loyal to Mycroft. Q could understand the feeling. "I'll keep watch," he added. Sherlock looked at him, something oddly vulnerable in the detective's gaze, and then he nodded, getting to his feet and stretching.

"See you, R," he said stiffly as he strode past, done with all the emotional things for the day.

The hacker blinked in surprise. "Sherlock," he called, and the other man turned back to him with a questioning look. "It's  _Q_ now, actually. I got myself a promotion."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "So what's your name now, then?" Q frowned, not understanding, and Sherlock grinned. "Well you can't very well be _Ronan Blake_ now, can you? You need a name that starts with _Q."_

Q laughed softly, shaking his head fondly, and turned away from Sherlock. He heard the detective leave, closing the door behind him, and then Q walked forward, examining Mycroft.

"I don't know what I would've done if I lost you," he murmured, taking Mycroft's hand lightly in his. His partner didn't respond, of course, but he wasn't meant to. "You and Jimyou're all I have. I can't..." His eyes stung. "I can't even imagine how much losing you would hurt. It would...it would break me, My. Soso no more putting yourself in the path of bullets meant for others, alright?  _Fuck,_ I never should've sent you that bloody text message."

He wiped his eyes, scowling at the wetness, and then toed off his shoes and gently climbed into bed with Mycroft. It was a hospital bed, and thus not very wide, but Q didn't take up much space, and he easily curled around Mycroft's prone body, careful not to jostle any injuries.

"You're safe, love," he whispered to his partner, reassuring himself. "We're both safe."

And, when he saw Sebastian poke his head in and give a firm nod, he knew that that was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I'm firmly Qcroft in this story OBVIOUSLY but there was no way I could ignore the museum scene in Skyfall, because fuck man that scene screams sexual tension and 00Q. No actual 00Q is gonna be happening in this story, but lol there's no way I'm ignoring their tension!
> 
> Again, hope you liked this chapter! Comments are always welcome, and see ya next time!


	11. Outside Looking In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone else gets a turn in the spotlight.
> 
> AKA the chapter told from everyone else's perspectives instead of Q's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this chapter was "A Study in Q" :)
> 
> Look at me! Two chapters in a week!! I'm so proud of myself!
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy!

James enjoyed his job.

He was good at it _very_ goodand no one could say any different, even if they sometimes raised complaints about his methods. He was Double-Oh-Seven, the old M's favorite, the best of the best. He didn't care what others thought of him, because it didn't  _matter._ They didn't have to like him to respect him, and they didn't have to even respect him to admit he knew what he was doing.

And yet, somehow, he was standing in the middle of Q-branch being yelled at by a waif of a quartermastersweaters and glasses and fringe and allabout his lack of skill and competency in the field. All because he brought back a few items in pieces.

Considering the man looked like a strong breeze could knock him over, James was surprised at how terrifying his rant actually was. Stuart, 005, had once left the quartermaster's office pale and shaky after he'd displeased the younger man. James had laughed at him, thinking it ridiculous that this  _boyish_ boffin instilled fear in someone who murdered for a living.

Alec Trevelyan, 006 and James' closest friend, hadn't laughed at all, not in the slightest bit surprised. And now, James understood why.

He didn't quite know what to do. And, glancing around Q-branch, he could tell that a majority of the workers were watching and pretending not to; it wasn't every day you saw the infamous Double-Oh-Seven blinking stupidly as a skinny nerd ripped him a new one.

"I'm sorry, am I  _boring_ you, Agent Bond?" the Quartermaster demanded, noticing how James' gaze had wandered.

Ok, now he'd had just about enough of this. "No, Quartermaster, definitely not," he said smoothly, smirking slightly. "I was simply wondering if this was going to come to an end any time soon. I  _do_ have an actual job to do."

For a moment, there was a look in Q's eyes that promised murder, and James just smiled placidly through it. Then, Q pinched the bridge of his nose and forced through gritted teeth, "Get out of my sight."

James inclined his head respectfullybecause despite his insubordination, he  _was_ starting to respect the boffinand turned to go. After a few steps, Q called out, "Tell Double-Oh-Six to teach you a few lessons on staying on my good side!"

James laughed softly, shaking his head, and did in fact make his way to the gun range where he knew Alec was, but certainly not to ask for _pointers._ No, he had some questions _about_ their new quartermaster that he was pretty sure Alec could answer.

When Alec finished emptying his clip into the moving targets, he removed his headphones and turned to James with a prompting, raised eyebrow. "Admiring the view?" he quipped. "Or are you waiting for a specific reason?"

"Want to grab a bite? I'm starving," he said in response, because no way was he starting this conversation in the belly of MI6 with a bunch of suspicious spies all over the place. Plus, he didn't want Alec to be so firmly on his guard.

His friend tilted his head, clearly sensing there was something more than just food, but he nodded. "Sure, there's a new Thai place I've been meaning to check out. I'll drive."

They chatted about nothing in particular on the way there, and it wasn't until they'd ordered and their waiter left them that James casually said, "So you've known the new Q for a while, right?"

Alec's eyebrows furrowed for a moment and he took a sip of water, before leaning back in his seat calmly. "Yes, I've known him since he joined MI6. Why?"

"So you know his real name, then," James said curiously, tilting his head.

Alec gave him an exasperated look. "I'm not telling you his name, James. It's classified for a reason."

James waved him off. "Of course not, just wondering if he'd simply shown up with a secret identity." He smirked, and Alec rolled his eyes. "So what's he like, then? When he's not creepily focused on work or yelling at troublesome agents?"

His friend shifted, seeming almost uncomfortable for a moment, and then said, "He's always intense, actually. He could be doing something as simple as fixing himself a cup of tea and there will still be something in his eyes..." he trailed off, then shook his head and offered James a lop-sided smile. "He was made for this work, James, just like us. He might look young and frail but he's anything but."

James hummed, thinking it over. Yes, he could see that. With a bit more muscle and some extra training, it was probable that the boffin would make a good field agent. He certainly had the stomach for it, and the easy detachment.

"Are he and Mycroft Holmes involved?" James asked next.

The waiter came back, then, and both men stayed silent while their food was placed in front of them, though Alec was frowning at him. When the waiter left, Alec asked, "Why do you want to know, James?"

James shrugged, taking a bite of his meal. "Holmes took a bullet for Mthe _old_ Mduring that whole mess with Silva weeks back. Q sounded pretty panicked on the phone when he asked her if Holmes had still been alive; pretty angry, too, when she didn't have an answer."

Alec sighed, shaking his head. "Yea, they've been together about three years, I think." He snorted, a smile tilting his lips. "A fucked up couple, you know? The pair of themruthless, cold, efficient, good at their goddamn jobs, capable of ruling the world..." He chuckled. "Watching them interact is always the funniest thing. I mean, they're both cold bastards _especially_ Holmesbut put them together and he just melts."

James' eyebrows shot up, surprised. He'd met Mycroft Holmes once or twice, and had never bought the line about  _Minor Position_ that everyone seemed to say when Holmes was mentioned. The man was ruthless and sociopathic. The very idea of him  _melting_ was simply too unbelievable.

"Any family?" James asked, flagging down the waiter for another glass of water.

"James, what's going on?" Alec asked, putting his fork down. "Why all the questions about Q?"

The waiter appeared with a jug of water, and James took the momentary interruption to think. Alec was friends with the quartermaster, or at least knew him very well, and might not take kindly to the thoughts in James' head. Then again, Alec was a damn good agent and had been his friend for a very long time, so he doubted the man would do anything about it.

"I think he's great as his job," James started with. "In the three weeks he's been running things, it doesn't seem like he's done a single thing wrong, and he's definitely saved a lot of agents out in the field. I'd imagine that he did the same thing before this promotion, yes? How long has he been MI6?"

"Eight years," Alec replied absently, waiting for James' point.

"Right. So I'm not doubting we're lucky to have him as a quartermaster,  _especially_ after Boothroyd's decline from efficiency. But there's something..." James pursed his lips. "Silva said something to me." Alec tensed, immediately going to protest the reliability, and James put up a hand to stop him. "I  _know,_ just listen. Silva was a monologuer, and at one point he started ranting about what he'd do after he killed M and me. He said he'd make sure to track down  _the pretty little thing_ we had in charge of Q-branch, and then told me I had no idea what we'd gotten ourselves into by putting this new Q at the helm."

Alec stared off to the side thoughtfully, considering the words. Then, predictably, he said, "James, consider the  _source._ Silva was insane, and out to take down the entirety of MI6. A great way to do that is to attempt to discredit the people in charge. Besides, that line could mean  _anything,_ not necessarily that we shouldn't trust Q."

James nodded, because he knew all that. And him being suspicious of the quartermaster was just the fact that he'd been in this game a very long time and it was second-nature to distrust new people. He  _knew_ that. He still had to voice the questions.

Alec sighed. "I've known Q a  _long_ time, I would've noticed if something was off about him." He paused, as if debating something, and then said, "I'm his emergency medical contact, actually."

James' eyebrows shot up. _What the fuck?_ "Wow. I didn't realize you guys were  _that_ close."

The other agent shrugged a shoulder. "When he joined MI6 he didn't have anybody else." He looked at James with a wry smile. "You know how M loved her orphans. Well, I became one of the only people here he seemed like he could stand. He's a practical fellow, and wanted to choose an emergency contact that would be able to immediately alert MI6 in case anything happened. Since we were friends of a sort, he put me down, and it's stuck.

"I trust him, James," Alec said quietly, "and you know I don't trust easily."

 _I trusted Vesper,_ James stopped himself from saying, _and I was wrong._

But Alec had a solid point. Eight years of loyalty and exceptional work was worth quite a lot, and James was willing to let go of the rantings of a madman trying to break down MI6.

So, he nodded, smiling at his friend. "Right. Good. Now, tell me about your mission in Vienna."

Alec let out a breath, seeming relieved, and then started to give James a play-by-play of his most recent mission.

James put the whole thing out of his head, and, over the next few months, built up something of a  _friendship_ with the quartermaster.

This new Q was clever, witty, ruthless, and scarily good at his job. He didn't take shit from any of the agents and settled for nothing but perfection from those working for him. On a mission there was no better person to have in his ear than Q, because he knew that even if he came home bloody and bruised, Q would always get him home.

James started bringing him gifts from each of his missions, seeing as he rarely ever brought back the gadgets Q sent him into the field with. Every time he entered Q-branch he was pleased to see that Q kept all of his various little trinkets in a drawer in his desk instead of throwing them away. James even saw the quartermaster using the mug he'd gotten him once or twice.

Alec had been right to tell him to calm down. Raoul Silva's words meant nothing, and he should forget they'd ever been said, especially when compared to the dry comments in his ear on a mission, or the exasperated eye roll when he brought back another destroyed item, or the full-bodied laugh when he said just the right thing to crack Q up.

Honestly? James was so utterly  _fucked._

* * *

Sometimes, Mycroft truly didn't understand what was going through his partner's head.

It was a rare occasion, of course _(he knew Oliver James as well as he knew himself, as well as he knew Sherlock, and the inner-workings of the hacker's mind were a familiar place),_ but there'd be a moment, every now and then, when Mycroft could  _see_ something happening, but he just couldn't tell what it was.

Sometimes, Mycroft was afraid of what was going through his partner's head.

Not because he thought James would hurt himthe idea was laughable, that James would purposefully harm himbut because he worried for what it meant for James, himself.

Having a brilliant mind never came without costs. For Sherlock, it was his inability to shut things out. It's what had driven the younger Holmes to drugs in the first place, to simply quiet the noise or focus his thoughts. For Mycroft, it was how he was always just a step out of place with the rest of the world, that no matter how he pretended to be similar to the goldfish _(and unlike Sherlock, he did make an effort)_ there was always the feeling that time was moving just a bit slower around him, and he couldn't slow himself down to match. That feeling had given him many panic attacks when he was younger.

For James, it was that he took everything on himself. Every single thing in the world that he thought he could do, he felt obligated to do it. If someone told him that a nuclear bomb was about to go off in central London, he'd already be planning out contingency after contingency, whilst also disarming the bomb himself from his laptop.

This wasn't to say that James would do these things out of a sense of  _patriotic duty,_ but because he thought that obviously he should be able to accomplish these feats, and thus he _had_ to. It's why he'd pushed himself to attempt to have sex with Mycroft years agohe felt like it was something he should be able to do. And it hurt him an extreme amount.

So yes, sometimes, Mycroft was very afraid of James' mind. Because one day, James would solve an issue the way he thought he  _needed_ to solve it, and it would break him. One day, James would lock himself away because facing the reality of what he'd done would hurt too much to always feel it.

And from that point on, Mycroft would be very afraid for the  _rest_ of the world.

Right now, though? Right now everything seemed alright and Mycroft was allowing himself to be content.

Being happy wasn't an easy thing for Mycroft Holmes. When you were as smart as he was, dissatisfaction with life seemed to be a constant companion, and then so many problems enjoyed popping up in his path whenever he even  _slightly_ let his guard down. He relaxed as a child and everything with Euros happened. He relaxed in his twenties and Sherlock overdosed  _(three times)._  

Frankly, Mycroft was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because overall? Things were...fine. There was the ever-present danger of James Moriarty coming back for Sherlock, of course, and that kept Mycroft up many nights, trying to figure out a way to get rid of the problem. And then there was James' PTSD, that Mycroft was often afraid of setting off, of hurting his partner.

But Moriarty was currently pretty absent which meant Sherlock was as safe as Sherlock ever was, and James was currently doing very well not even having had a panic attack in so long _(despite what happened, which still made Mycroft's blood boil),_ so Mycroft could just be  _content_ for once.

It was a truly unsettling feeling.

James always seemed to be able to tell when Mycroft's thoughts drifted towards this topic, towards the examination of his own ability to be satisfied with what he currently had out of life. In was a feeling they shared, sometimes, though James was far better at accepting that things weren't about to blow up than Mycroft was.

"Mycroft," James murmured next to him, rolling over to face his partner, his eyes still closed. "It's three in the morning, and you're thinking  _very loudly."_

Mycroft smiled softly, shifting forward so he could place a light kiss on James' forehead, and then settled back in his own space. James made a sound of displeasure, his nose wrinkling adorably, and shuffled after Mycroft, curling up against the older man.

"Sorry," Mycroft whispered, his breath catching. He brushed back some of James' black curls, loving the soft sigh that followed. "Go back to sleep, everything's fine."

And the thing was, that everything  _was_ fine. Truly.

They'd been together thirty-eight and a quarter months, and Mycroft was still marveling over that fact. He'd never expected...this was never something he'd ever thought he'd find. He'd accepted during his teen years that a romantic relationship wasn't in the cards for him. And yet here Oliver James was, ten years his younger and so incredibly brilliant, happily sleeping in his bed. Happily going on dates with him, and kissing him, and calling him his  _partner._

Here Oliver James was, disproving something Mycroft had accepted as fact.

James' brow wrinkled briefly and then his eyes blinked open, squinting at Mycroft through the darkness. He probably couldn't see a single thing, considering he wasn't wearing his glasses. Still, with a strange amount of accuracy, he looked into Mycroft's eyes.

"You ok?" he asked, voice thick with sleep. He was blinking rapidly, trying to wake himself up. Mycroft wished he wouldn't, though he always appreciated the concern.

"I'm fine," Mycroft said quietly, "really. Come on, you have to be awake in three hours; go back to sleep."

When he received no reply, Mycroft figured that his partner had agreed and was falling back asleep, but instead a moment later he felt James sliding out of bed and heading for the door.

Mycroft sat up, frowning. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to make coffee," James said, a yawn interrupting him halfway through and distorting the words. "You're not going back to sleep, so I might as well get some brewing."

"But you-" Mycroft began to protest.

"Too late," James interrupted, and Mycroft could hear a smile in his voice. He couldn't help but smile back into the darkness as his partner left, silently padding around his home, and then returning ten minutes later with hot coffee. Mycroft had no doubt that it would be made exactly the way he liked it; James, like himself, was a stickler for the small details about someone.

James passed him a cup and turned the light on the dimmest setting, as to not blind Mycroft who'd simply been sitting in the pitch black doing absolutely nothing. Mycroft murmured a quiet  _Thank you_ and then watched James pull out his laptop, immediately setting to work on something or another.

Mycroft loved watching James work. He'd taken to the job of Quartermaster so brilliantly, and everything Mycroft heard about him in the role was nothing but praises. According to Mallory, James was even managing to wrangle the most annoying of agents, such as 007, which was a feat in and of itself.

"You're staring," James chastised, but his lips were curled up in a pleased smile.

"I am," Mycroft agreed, prompting James to laugh quietly, sending him a quick grin before turning his attention back to the sprawling code on his computer screen.

After about five more minutes, Mycroft pulled out something of his own to work on, because it was clear that the time for rumination had passed.

By the time seven AM rolled around, they were both showered, dressed, fed, and ready to head to work. They had lunch planswhich sometimes didn't mean much, considering how James tended to lose track of time at workso Mycroft set a few reminders for himself, because though his partner had a habit of getting lost in his mind, Mycroft tried to avoid the same issue.

The hours until one passed drolly; there was nothing major actually going on, nothing that required his assistance. There were a few small operations that he was technically overseeing, but they were so simple that his presence would be redundant and cumbersome rather than helpful.

Really, Mycroft should be pleased that no national crises were currently arising, but it did make his day awfully dull.

At twelve forty-two, Mycroft headed over to the MI6 headquarters. The guards glanced at him and stepped back, not making him go through security, because he'd been here enough that they  _knew,_ even if they didn't know for sure what it was that they knew.

The new HQ wasn't as fancy as the building that came before it, but one made do when explosions came knocking. James had told him that he liked the new place, actually; it was _solid,_ according to the younger man. Mycroft wasn't quite sure what that meant (the old one was  _'solid'_ too, everything was) but if it meant that James was happy in his odd basement, then understanding the specifics didn't much matter.

Sure enough, when Mycroft arrived, he found James still bent over his desk, eyes focused intently on the computer monitor. James had an office of his own, but more often than not Mycroft found him in the main area, working surrounded by everybody else. It probably had something to do with the fact that that's what he'd been doing for eight years at MI6, and it felt odd to shut himself away from his colleagues when they were all doing the same things, he just had a new title.

Just a guess, but.

Next to James' desk, perching on a short filing cabinet, was the man Mycroft recognized as James Bond. He'd attended the man's funeral, actually, back in February. He'd been Olivia's favorite agent, despite his constant insubordination. He knew that the man was giving Gareth trouble, too. James didn't seem to have an issue with him, though.

Bond said something, then, glancing over what James was working on, and James rolled his eyes, his lips quirking in an amused smile. Bond said something else, a smirk pulling at his features, and James let out a snort before throwing Bond a half-hearted glare and saying something Mycroft couldn't make out, to which Bond grinned.

Mycroft frowned, watching the interaction. They seemed...awfully close, considering James never really mentioned the agent, at least no more than any of the others. Bond's body was angled towards James, his entire being relaxed to a level that Mycroft had never seen a Double-Oh reach. His full attention was on James, tuning out the very busy workroom around them, and the smile on his face was soft and real.

James, in turn, looked delighted by their back-and-forth, making something twist inside of Mycroft. He most certainly didn't let it show.

In that moment, Bond's eyes flicked up and he spotted him. Mycroft tried not to feel like he was spying, because it wasn't like anything was going on, and it  _was_ his partner, in a public space, when they had plans, so.

Bond murmured something, his eyes darting briefly down to James' face and then back to Mycroft. James' brow furrowed momentarily and he followed the agent's line of sight.

All of Mycroft's bad feelings took a back seat, because when James spotted him, the younger man's face lit up, his eyes crinkling in real happiness. Mycroft smiled in return and took that as his cue to walk over.

"Hey," James said warmly, "what are you-?" He cut himself off, blinking, and squinted down at the clock on his desk.  _13:07._ He looked back to Mycroft with a sheepish smile. "Ah. Sorry."

Mycroft shook his head, smiling fondly. "No need for apologies, I think we moved past that a long time ago, yes?" James laughed softly under his breath at the acknowledgment of how many times he'd been late to things or just completely forgotten. "Are you ready for lunch, or do you have things to finish here?"

James winced, glancing down at his computer. "Give me one moment..." He went back to whatever he'd been working on, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

Over the quartermaster's head, Mycroft made eye contact with Bond, raising an eyebrow.

"Hello," Bond said, unperturbed by Mycroft's attention. If anything, he seemed to relax further into his position, though now it looked a bit more put-on.

"Oh, yea," James said absently, not pausing in what he was doing, "Mycroft, meet Agent Bond; Bond, meet my partner, Mycroft Holmes."

"We've met," Mycroft said smoothly. "My condolences, by the way."

Bond tilted his head. "Oh? For what, in particular?"

"The old M spoke very highly of you," Mycroft said, because it was true. "She also complained about you a lot," he added, because that was  _also_ true. Bond snorted. "And though you weren't technically family, I think you cared for her, and she died. So, my condolences."

For a moment, Bond just gave him a long, searching look, and then inclined his head. "Thank you. She was a friend of yours, I take it?"

Before Mycroft could respond, James threw his arms up and shouted, "Success!" He was grinning, staring at the random boxes of code on his screen like he'd solved the mysteries of the universe.

Noticing that neither Mycroft nor Bond had any idea what he was celebrating, James sighed, exasperated, and stood up. "You-" he said, turning to Mycroft, "-can learn about it at lunch, which we can most  _definitely_ go to now. And you-" he turned to throw a smirk at Bond, "-can find out when I damn well feel like cluing you and the other agents in."

"But dear Q," Bond said, in a clearly fake tone of offense, "how ever will I survive if I don't know every secret to the boffin language of symbols and numbers?"

James snorted, shaking his head, and glanced around. "My bag's in the office..." he muttered, and then dashed off to go grab it.

Mycroft took the time to examine Bond. Bond, in turn, took the time to examine him.

"He's only had a splash of tea today," Bond said eventually, nodding towards James' office, "so try to make sure he gets a full meal, yes? His eating habits are simply atrocious."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Bond smirked in false pleasantness. As if, after three years, Mycroft didn't understand that? And Bond had known James for...what? Just over two months?

"I'm a quick study," Bond murmured, his eyes keen, and Mycroft blinked in surprise; his thoughts were not typically so obvious, and Bond was hitting the nail on the head.

"I'm sure you are," Mycroft said, smiling tightly. "However, Q is not a quick or easy read. Nor should he be considered such."

Bond's eyebrows twitched upwards, and there was something in his expression like  _approval._

"Ready," James said breathlessly, jogging back over to them, his messenger bag slung across his chest. He glanced between the pair and frowned. "Everything ok here?"

"Of course," Bond smoothly, breaking his eye contact with Mycroft to give the quartermaster a quick smile. "Go enjoy lunch with your partner. Nice to see you again, Mr. Holmes."

"Likewise, Agent Bond," Mycroft said, inclining his head, and felt himself get warm inside when James took his hand and walked away without looking back.

* * *

Sebastian Moran would never be able to forget meeting the Moriarty brothers.

He could be ninety years old and absolutely zero fucking memory of anything else, and he would  _still_ be able to picture those moments clear as day.

Frankly, he'd be hard pressed to forget  _anything_ about his time working for them. Seven years of his life dedicated to an insane cause. After the army, after his CO Andrew, Sebastian had never thought he'd actually find something worth sticking with. But after five years of work as a mercenary, some bitch hired him to find and kill  _Moriarty,_ and instead he found himself a home.

 _Fuck,_ what kind of sissy ass bullshit was that?

"Sebby! Tell him he's wrong!" Jim shouted from across the room, drawing the sniper's attention away from his own thoughts and to where the brothers were lounging on Q's big, comfy couch.

Sebastian found it pretty funny that they spent a majority of their time in Q's apartment, considering the fact that the younger Moriarty was a high-ranking government official and was dating the man who basically  _ran_ the government. It was reckless, really. They ran such an unbelievably high risk of being caught, and then everything would come crashing down around them.

But technically Jim didn't have a set apartment of his own (more like a million, all across the world), so Q's flat was home base. It was one of the only places Sebastian had ever seen the pair of them completely drop any pretenses. It was home, whether or not either of them would admit it (and it was very unlikely that they would).

"I can't," Sebastian replied easily, "because it's unlikely that Q is wrong."

Jim made an affronted sound, Q shot him a smug smirk, and Sebastian went back to the book he was reading. Sebastian had no idea what they were discussing, but it didn't much matter; they always reached an agreement. They always found a middle ground. They were always a team. Sebastian knew he didn't have to worry about explosive fights.

"I'm just saying-" Q began, and those were words Sebastian had heard come out of the hacker's mind just about a million times before.

"Yes, yes," Jim interrupted, throwing his head back and staring up at the ceiling. "You're erring on the side of caution, which is expected, because this is..." He let out a short laugh, slightly hysterical. "Well, it's  _insane._ And I get that, I do. But  _Jamie-James,_ this is what's it's all been for, you know? This is...this is what it's all been for."

He was whispering by the end, his eyes sliding shut, his breathing shuddering in his lungs.

Q didn't respond, but it was a familiar silence. It meant he was thinking, was planning, was trying to find the best way to give Jim what he needed and still protect them after it was all over.

Sebastian would never claim to fully understand the minds of the Moriarty brothers. The sniper was a realist about his own skillshe was in no way an idiot, but he certainly wasn't a genius like them either. But he knew them better than just about everyone; he knew their habits, knew what each smile meant, knew what they were thinking depending on the particular furrow of their brows, knew what they would ask of him just as they'd decided on a course of action, knew that they _trusted_ him.

He knew he loved these idiots. Not in any fucking sappy romantic bullshit way, but he'd die for them. The incentive of a good job and steady paycheck had stopped being his reasoning for sticking around barely a month into working for them.

"Well, the profile is finished," Q said quietly, and Sebastian stared intently at his book, knowing that that tone meant the following conversation was solely meant for the pair of them. "So if you really want to go through with all this...well, we're ready. Every detail is planned out, every chess piece in their place. We've done a solid job these last few months, Jim. This will work."

Jim didn't reply, and this silence was one Sebastian understood, too; it meant he was trying to figure out a way to get what he wanted and not hurt his brother in the process.

"Are you sure?" Jim finally settled on, and no one in the room thought he was asking  _Are you sure we're ready?_ They all knew it meant  _Are you sure you're ok with this?_

Q snorted, and Sebastian could picture him rolling his eyes. Sebastian barely kept in a groan; these boys were so emotionally stunted, it was ridiculous.

"I'm sure," the younger Moriarty said firmly. "We've been building up to this since you warned him away, Jim. Probably even long before that, actually."

"But you weren't his friend  _long before that._ He's like family to you now."

 _"You're_ my family," Q said sharply, and Sebastian winced; any time either of them questioned their bond, the other always got so  _furious._ "Sherlock Holmes is my friend, and a good man, and  _sure_ if you want me to say it, I'm probably going to miss his company. But guess what? That doesn't fucking matter! I don't care!  _You_ are my family Jim, not Sherlock bloody Holmes. Jesus, deartháir."

The apartment fell silent. Then Jim muttered, "Well, you didn't have to shout."

Q laughed, and the tension broke.

"So when's this all going down?" Sebastian asked, knowing it was once again ok for him to exist in the conversation. Two identical eyebrows were raised in his direction. "I mean, yea you guys have everything planned out down to the smallest detail, but you haven't actually picked _when._ For the bombing shit couple years back you were dating Molly Hooper leading up to it, which put you on a time-table. You guys haven't picked _when_ you're going to do all this shit. It's just...an idea at the moment."

Both brothers stared at him for another moment, and he resisted the urge to shift under the combined weight, and then they looked at each other.

"Huh," Jim said dumbly, and Sebastian snorted, shaking his head. Jim turned a glare on him. "Oh, shut up!"

"Well, no time like the present," Q said ruefully. "England is at peace, that whole Silva mess almost four months ago. Sherlock is blissfully happy with John, and still searching for you. Mycroft..." Q rolled his neck, "...is as happy as Mycroft ever gets. The world is content right now, and we're _ready_ to flip everything upside down. Might as well do it now."

Jim smirked, the devilish one that always made people want to run in the other direction. Sebastian couldn't help but smile in return.

"Well!" Jim said, popping to his feet. "It appears that tomorrow, I am breaking into the Tower of London."

* * *

John Watson was a simple man.

He was a simple man, in love with an extremely  _complicated_ one, in a world that only got even _more_ complicated with every day that went by.

But in moments like these, when he was lying in bed with Sherlock asleep and curled around him like a koala, everything else seemed to melt away, and for once their life was simple, too.

Not that John would ever want to change their life. It was exciting and extraordinary and more than he could've ever hoped for. After he was wounded and discharged, he'd never thought he'd find something to give a shit about again. Honestly, he'd been a few weeks away from putting his gun in his mouth. There had just seemed no  _point_ to going on.

But then Sherlock showed up  _(God bless Mike Stamford)_ in all his mad glory and gave John absolutely no choice but to keep on, to get  _better,_ to live life to its fullest and actually enjoy himself once again. Sherlock showed him the battlefield in the streets of London and John couldn't imagine ever doing anything else.

And then _somehow_ this beautiful, brilliant, utterly  _insane_ man, fell for him. Somehow this man that was so far above him and everyone else...somehow this man fell in love with him.

The official boyfriend-boyfriend thing was new, just about four months  _(Mycroft was shot, and Sherlock had returned from the hospital and blurted out a request for an actual date)_ , but they'd been dancing around it for a long while now, getting closer and closer until there was absolutely nothing unnatural about going out on a date.

Actually, nothing about their relationship had changed. They slept in the same bed a lot more frequentlyalmost every nightbut they'd slowly started doing that before. Sherlock was more relaxed with casual touches now, he supposed, but honestly that had been shifting before as well.

Well, there was  _one_ thing that was different. He certainly hadn't been making out with Sherlock before the real date.

John smiled softly and pressed a light kiss to the crown of Sherlock's head. The detective's nose wrinkled in sleep and he shifted, his arm tightening briefly around John's chest. John loved waking up next to this man; he loved actually being able to hold him without feeling extremely awkward, without _Sherlock_ feeling awkward.

This was a good thing they had. John promised himself not to fuck it up.

After about half an hour, the doctor slowly extracted himself from Sherlock's hold and made his way to the bathroom, intent on a shower. He took his time, sending a silent thank you to Mrs. Hudson for always having hot water, no matter what, and then ventured out to start the day.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table bent over his microscope when John emerged, and as he walked past the taller man he kissed his cheek, squeezing his shoulder. Sherlock didn't move, but he saw him smile.

His phone pinged a few times with the alert of a text, but in true Sherlock fashion, the man ignored it.

The body hanging from the ceiling in the living room didn't even give John pause, not after everything he'd witnessed these last two years. "So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, picking up the newspaper. Sherlock shouted back about the case he'd just solved, and it was such a familiar morning that John couldn't help but smile.

They stayed in content silence for a few more minutes, but then Sherlock's phone pinged again, and then again. John rolled his eyes; all the man needed to do was  _open_ the text, and it would stop making noises!

"I'll get it, shall I?" He put his paper down and walked over to the table, picking up the phone to read the message. And then, quite suddenly, John couldn't breathe.

"Here," John said roughly, clearing his throat. He offered the phone to Sherlock, who didn't even look up from the microscope.

"Not now, I'm busy."

"Sherlock-"

"Not  _now,"_ the detective repeated, his tone exasperated.

John's breaths came in in sharp pants. "He's back," he got out, his throat feeling thick.

Very slowly, Sherlock rose his head and turned to look at John, meeting his gaze evenly. He then reached out for the cellphone and took it from the doctor, reading the single text that had just upended their morning.

 _Come and play._  
_Tower Hill._  
_Jim Moriarty x._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of the fire and into the frying pan, or all that jazz and a bag of chips. Ok, I'm mixing euphemisms. Or something. Forgive me, I'm quite tired.
> 
> Ahhh, hope you guys enjoyed!!


	12. The Coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim begins his final game with Sherlock, someone has a revelation, and Q faces an issue he hadn't been expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hurts my heart.
> 
> Also! There's a scene that has dialogue taken straight from TRF; it'll seem like I'm cutting a lot out but it's just because I didn't find it necessary to copy the entirety of a long scene, so I just included some snippets of convo as markers of what points the conversation was reaching when various things happen.
> 
> Also, presenting some Sherlock POV stuff!
> 
> Another day another insane plan. Hope you enjoy!

The worlds of James "Q" Moriarty and John Watson began to fall apart on an early September Monday morning.

It didn't feel like the end, of course. It never did.

For John, he was anxious and angry, but relatively calm. He didn't understand  _why_ the criminal mastermind Jim Moriarty had allowed himself to be captured attempting to steal the crown jewels, but he was leavings the  _whys_ and the  _hows_ to Sherlockfor John, what was important was that the man was behind bars where he belonged.

For John, the end didn't feel like the end at all. It felt like the beginning of a new chapter in their story, one without the threat of the infamous _Moriarty_ always hanging over them.

For Q, he was anxious and critical, but overall calm. Their plan was perfect and had so far gone off without a hitch. Everyone was doing exactly as they'd expected them to, and Q was ready to pull up the blackmail as soon as it came time. Until then, it was just the waiting game. It was smooth sailing.  _All_ of it would be smooth sailing, almost too easy.

For Q, the end didn't feel like the end at all. It felt like finally moving forward, finally stepping into a new age without the obsession of  _Sherlock Holmes_ hanging over them.

They were both wrong. Because this game that was being set into motion? This Final Problem, with all the players involved? It wasn't meant to end well, and whether the consequences fell a few days later or a few months down the line, everyone would feel them eventually.

* * *

The thought going through Q's mind as he watched Sherlock give his testimony was  _That man loves the sound of his own voice._

John, sitting next to the hacker, seemed to be thinking the exact same thing.

From the angle of the courtroom, Q could see Jim in profile, and he had to resist rolling his eyes at the devilishly pleased expression on his brother's face as Sherlock waxed poetic about his skills. Honestly, could the man _be_ any more obvious about his thoughts?

Sherlock, whenever he glanced over to the man on trial, seemed just as self-satisfied. Arrogant pricks, the both of them.

Everything was going according to plan so far. Both Sebastian and Alec were ready for their roles, the trashy reporter had been chosen, Sherlock was being led by his excitement and thus doing his part in all this beautifully, and Mycroft was none the wiser to what was _actually_ going on under his nose.

Briefly, Q wondered about Mycroft's guilt. Would he feel it? Would he know the role he'd played in Sherlock's downfall? Would he acknowledge the huge mistake he'd made? That was his punishment in all this, after all. Sherlock's was to die; Mycroft's was to live.

When Sherlock turned his attention to the jury, John looked skyward and sighed, knowing what was about to come. Q rolled his eyes as the detective began a thorough rundown of everyone on the jury before snarking at the judge, who had a stern response for him. Sherlock briefly glanced over to where John and Q were sitting, John giving him a stern look and Q an exasperated one, before his eyes shifted to Jim.

Jim held the gaze for a few moments longer, a smile turning his lips, his eyes dark and hooded. Then Sherlock took a deep breath and sealed his fate.

"Jesus Christ," John muttered, running a hand down his face. "He has no concept of..."

"Oh, he does," Q disagreed, watching as Jim's eyes tracked the detective being escorted from the room. "He just doesn't care. This is his shot to finally show the world Jim Moriarty, and finally show Moriarty how much he sees him. He wasn't going to pass that up for something as irrelevant as common decency."

John looked at him incredulously, and Q raised an eyebrow in response. John sighed. "You bloody geniuses. Think I'd be used to it by this point."

Q laughed softly, and pretended not to see the wink Jim sent him when their gazes briefly crossed. "Yes, you think you would."

* * *

When the call came from John the next day, it was not unexpected.

It hadn't been a 100% thing that Moriarty would get off free, but after seeing all the man was capable ofwell, Sherlock wasn't surprised when John said,  _"_ _Not guilty. They found him not guilty. No defense, and Moriarty's walked free."_

Sherlock let out a slow breath and lowered the phone. He got to the jury, of course. There was no possible other reason for them to not go with the obvious answer.

 _"Sherlock, are you listening? He's out. Youyou_ know _he'll be coming after you. Sher-"_

Sherlock ended the call. He did know; he didn't need to be told. His pulse sped up, he took a moment to calm. Then he stood up, got dressed, and put on the kettle to boil.

What was the next step? Where did they go from here? In the past, their game had been in the shadows. But now the entire world knew Jim Moriarty's face, knew Sherlock's connection to him. He could feel something coming, he just didn't know  _what._ What had it all been for? Moriarty didn't care about money, not really, so  _why?_ Why go through this farce, why put himself on trial?

He picked up his violin and began to play, something that normally calmed him down. But he was too amped up, his mind moving too quickly with all the possibilities, to reach anything resembling peace.

He heard the creak on the steps and knew who it was; his playing stopped momentarily before he continued, and the devil kept ascending.

"Most people knock," Sherlock murmured when the door opened behind him. He paused, then shrugged slightly. "But then you're not most people, I suppose."

The whole conversation was a dance between the two of them, a familiar push and pull. It truly made Sherlock feel  _alive,_ his heart pounding, his body tingling. This was the feeling he'd always sought through his twenties, the feeling he'd tried to reach in all his experimenting with drugs. But no one except Jim Moriarty brought this out.

"Got to the jury, of course," Sherlock said.

It was fascinating, the way Moriarty's mind worked. So much like his own, yet something just out of sync.

"So how are you going to do it?" Sherlock asked, blowing on his tea, staring at Moriarty.  _"Burn me."_

"Oh, that's the problem," Moriarty said softly, staring right back, his cup held to his mouth. "The final problem. Have you worked it out yet? What's the final problem?" He smiled over his cup. "I did tell you," he sing-songed, "but did you listen?"

He put down his cup and began idly tapping on his knee. Sherlock tracked the movement.

"You're  _curious,_ aren't you?" Moriarty murmured, his lips twitching. "So curious it's almost eating you alive."

Sherlock's eye twitched in vague irritation; he hated this part, the not-knowing. He  _didn't_ understand what the final problem was, and he  _was_ curious. He knew he couldn't demand answersit wouldn't work, and it would only give Moriarty power in their gamebut he wanted to very badly.

"Curiosity killed the cat," Sherlock said nonchalantly, putting down his own cup.

"Ah, but my dear, satisfaction brought him back, and it is all oh so clever," Moriarty said with a light chuckle, and Sherlock's breath caught.

 _It's just a coincidence,_ he told himself. _There's nothing nefarious. Just a coincidence._ But he heard Mycroft's voice in his head: _The universe is rarely so lazy._

"Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?"

"Told them what?" Sherlock asked absently, still reeling. He steepled his hands in front of his chin.

"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything."

Sherlocked forced himself back into the conversation, back into focusing on the  _here_ and  _now._ He could ruminate and second-guess and examine his every memory later. But in that moment, Moriarty was right in front of him, and he needed to pay attention, needed to  _focus._

"What is it all  _for?"_ Sherlock asked bitingly, having reached a point of not caring if it made him sound slow. There was so much to consider, so much to deal withhe wanted answers.

There were so many people he wanted answers from.

"But don't be scared," Moriarty said lowly, looking up at Sherlock with an intense expression from his hunched position. "Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."

Sherlock's gaze was captured by the look on Moriarty's face, and he forced himself to his stand, buttoning his jacket. "I never liked riddles."

Moriarty stood as well, pulling his own suit jacket into position in a sharp motion. "Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I. _Owe._ You."

Then, with one last grave, lingering look, Moriarty strode towards the door. Sherlock watched him go, something like dread settling in his stomach.

The apple carved with  _I O U_ didn't help.

* * *

And after all of that, Sherlock was left with a big question

What was he supposed to do now?

What could he  _possibly_ do now? He suspected something extreme, something disastrous, and the only way to find out if he was right would be to crack open his brother's life and examine every facet. And if he was right, this would have deeper implications than just interfering in his life, in Mycroft's. If he was rightwell, the British government should be very concerned.

Sherlock didn't remember much of that night, just a very worried John hanging around, and vaguely heard himself assure his partner that it would be a while before they saw Moriarty again.

He didn't remember much of the following week either, his head in a fog. He could tell that John and Mrs. Hudson were attributing it all to the mess that was the trial, which was part of it, sure, but that wasn't the immediate worrying thing. Moriarty was expected. This...this wasn't.

It was two and a half weeks after the trial when Q came over. It was bound to happen; they were  _friends,_ one of Sherlock's only, and the detective had been ignoring his texts and calls. He was bound to show up and check in on him. He'd done it in the past, after all, whenever Sherlock didn't reply for a while.

How could he reply right now, with what he suspected? What would he say? Q was smart enough to know something was off. Of course he was smart enough; he wouldn't have been able to pull this off without extreme levels of intelligence.

Fooling Mycroft. Fooling Sherlock. Fooling the entirety of MI6. That required brain power.

How had they not  _seen_ it? He had to be wrong; there was no way. Three and a half yearsSherlock would've  _noticed_ something.

Wouldn't he?

"What's up with you?" Q asked, squinting at him from where he sat on the couch. Sherlock startled.

"Hm?"

Q frowned, and put down his laptop. "You're twitchy. When you're working through problems you're always so still, but there's something going on with you that's big enough that you can't quite focus on the problem; you're distracted. And we haven't talked in a while; you haven't talked to Mycroft, either. What's going on?"

He knew them all so well. Q knew Sherlock as well asif not better thanJohn. And Mycroft...

"I..." Sherlock licked his lips. "There's something I'm trying to work out. I can't tell if I'm being paranoid or seeing something no one else has."

Q settled back against the couch, his expression relaxing. That's always how it happened, when he identified a problem; Q could never stand not knowing something, and once he figured it out, everything else would fall into place. It was the initial bump that gave him trouble.

"Maybe I can help," the hacker offered, and Sherlock let out a slow breath. "Two heads, and all that."

"Alright," Sherlock said slowly, mind whirling. He sat up straighter, rolled his shoulders, and met Q's gaze evenly. "A phrase Mycroft likes to use about coincidences is  _the universe is rarely so lazy._ You've heard him say it before, I'm sure."

Q nodded, a smile tilting his lips. "It's a clever thing to say; I've heard you echo it before, as well."

Sherlock nodded back. "Right. Well, the other day I met with someone and they said something, a phrase that I'd only ever heard once before by one specific person. A connection between the two is...unlikely, but possible. And it could be a coincidence. But I've only ever heard this precise phrasing of words twice in my life, and it was by these two people, in similar situations. I'm trying to determine if I'm right to see a connection."

Q looked skyward, thinking it through. "Well, you're probably not paranoid. I mean, it could just be that you happened to meet two people that grew up in a similar area and thus shared a common vernacular that you weren't familiar with."

Sherlock considered it. "One of them is from a high-class British family and the other is from another country."

The hacker made a sound of acknowledgement. "Different demographics, then. You're probably right to see a connection, Sherlock. Coincidences like that are rare, especially in the world we live in."

"Yes," Sherlock said softly, "that's what I was worried about."

_What am I supposed to do now?_

* * *

Q didn't like Kitty Riley.

She was obnoxious, and power-hungry, and couldn't see past her own ambitions to see that the story they were feeding her didn't add up. That's why they chose her, though; they needed someone too obsessed with being the best to give an actual shit about taking things at face value. Didn't mean Q had to  _like_ her, though.

He and Jim were in the quiet period now. The trial happened about a month ago, Moriarty vanishing from public view. And everyone was competing; rouge governments, intelligence communities, terrorist cellsbut they were quiet in return, not responding to anyone. This was the part where they played the actor in over his head. This was the part where Moriarty became a fiction.

They'd debated this course of action for a while, actually, concerned that this whole farce would have negative impacts on their very  _real_ business. But anybody who was anybody would know that Moriarty was real. And besidesthis whole story didn't need to hold up  _forever,_ just long enough to rob Sherlock of his life and destroy public opinion for a while.

Sad, but true.

Speaking of Sherlockthe detective was acting oddly. Normally Q would attribute such a change to the fairly large thing that had just gone down, but like with the game at the pool a couple years back, big interactions with Jim made Sherlock excited, got him amped up. It didn't send him into an odd, thoughtful mood. It didn't make him sometimes frown at nothing in particular, the expression deepening when Q mentioned Mycroft.

It didn't make Sherlock feel so distant.

But frankly, Q didn't have much time to ruminate on Sherlock's mental state. He mentioned it to John so that  _someone_ would be watching, but then he had to get back to work. Not only did he have this whole thing going on with Jim, but he also had to keep running the Moriarty enterprise, and he had to keep running Q-branch, and he had to keep some troublesome Double-Ohs from killing themselves...

And on, and on, and on.

Q was a very busy, stressed person. Even being around Mycroft this last month or so had been more stressful than it ever was, because all Q could think about was what was to come, about how very soon Mycroft's little brother would be dead and Q would be partially responsible.

So really, the stress around his boyfriend was probably from  _guilt,_ but it's not like Q was going to take it back. Besides, it was all just a job, reallyguilt and regret were unprofessional.

That didn't stop him from feeling them every once in a while.

These days, the only time Q felt truly relaxed was when he was hanging out with Alec and Bond. Originally, that had felt like quite the uncomfortable affair, considering that both he and Alec were secretly criminals and Bond was none the wiser, but that melted away quicklythe two agents were best friends, and Alec was  _his_ friend kind of, and Bond was quickly becoming one.

Hanging out with the two of themwhich mainly meant the pair of them bugging him in Q-branch while he was trying to workbecame some of the highlights of his stress-filled life.

Q was very much looking forward to this whole game with Sherlock being over. He would miss the detective's company, but everything would be so much  _easier_ once he was gone. Q didn't know what it would mean for him and Mycroft, but such a weight would be lifted from his shoulders.

As they were approaching two months after the trial, Q quietly let it slip that the magic code to open any door was in Sherlock's flat. Of course, no such thing existed (not that Q wasn't working on such a magical device), but it was all part of the plan.

And thus, mercenaries started to subtly move to Baker Street.

They were ready for what was to come. They even had the specific gunmen picked out; Sebastian on John, Alec on Lestrade, a woman called Jenna on Mrs. Hudson. Jim was even going to pretend there was a gunman on Q, as well, considering that Q was Sherlock's friend. Q rolled his eyes when told.

The kidnapping of Max and Claudette Bruhl went off without a hitch, the man they hired to do it having a striking resemblance to Sherlock. Sowing doubt was easy when people wanted to see Sherlock as a fraud.

"James," Mycroft said, shocking Q out of his thoughts.

Q blinked, and tried to go back over the last hour; when had he gotten to Mycroft's home? The last place he'd been consciously aware of was Q-branch. Fuck, he must've been too up in his head to notice. That was vaguely concerning.

"Um, what? Sorry," Q said absently, squinting.

Mycroft tilted his head, his gaze troubled. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course," Q replied automatically. "Just a lot going on at the moment." He looked his partner over, and saw that there was more in Mycroft's expression than just concern for the spaced-out younger man. "Are  _you_ alright?"

Mycroft didn't reply right away. "There's something..." he sighed. "I did something that I think is going to have disastrous consequences very soon. I am...concerned."

Q instantly knew what Mycroft was referring to. When he'd had Jim in custody  _(torturing him, hurting him)_ , he'd given up secrets about Sherlock's life, just enough to add evidence to the tale they were going to weave. Mycroft must've seen the papers, the hints that Kitty Riley had a childhood friend of Sherlock's that was telling-all.

And it _would_ be Mycroft's fault. That was the  _point._

"Can you tell me about it?" Q asked, because they'd established long ago that there were things in their jobs that they couldn't always discuss.

Mycroft pursed his lips, considering. "Not much, I don't think. But it affects Sherlock. And recently, my brother has been acting oddly around me, like there's something he knows but can'tor won'tbroach. And even putting aside how all of this might make Sherlock feel about me, what I did...it could have dangerous consequences  _for_ Sherlock, and the ones around him. It worries me."

 _It should,_ Q thought.

He sighed, and leaned over to cup Mycroft's cheek, forcing his partner to meet his eyes. "I love you," he said softly. "No matter what you've done, no matter what  _I've_ doneI love you, Mycroft. So very much. I can't promise that everything will be ok, but I'm at your side."

Mycroft's brow furrowed and his eyes flicked from side to side, examining Q. "I love you too," he said with such overwhelming, breathtaking honesty, and Q kissed him like there was no place he'd rather be.

* * *

And then Q sat back and watched the madness unfold.

He was at work, but he kept one of his screens continuously running a program to monitor and analyze any mention of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Rich Brook, and Kitty Riley. Because of this, he was the first to hear the warrant for Sherlock's arrest, and the first to hear that Sherlock had escaped with John as a "hostage"  _(as if)._  

He texted Jim: _How's staying with Riley?_

The response was instanta gif of someone blowing their brains out. Q chuckled and set his phone down, going back to what he was working on.

About an hour later, he got another message from Jim:  _Luckily our dear boy chose a tall building ;)_

A half hour or so after that, everything went to shit for Q.

It was very late, or very early, depending on how you looked at it, and so the only people currently in Q-branch were him and a lower-level coder named Sarah, who was very intelligent, very dedicated, and very good at keeping her mouth shut. She probably had a long future ahead of her at MI6.

"Sir?" Q heard, and looked up to see a group of agents, all watching him with severe expressions. "Would you come with us, Sir?"

"I'm busy," Q said slowly, his eyes flicking over them and trying to understand why they all looked so tense. "Can this wait?"

The one in front shook his head. "No, Sir, it can't. Please come with us."

Q saw that one of them had his hand resting on his weapon. Something uneasy curled in Q's gut.

"Alright," he said, "but could I have one moment to finish what I'm working on?" They all glanced at each other, and then the one in front nodded. "Thank you," he said, and turned back to his computers.

Very quickly, Q shut down all his systems, locking them down tight so that no one would get into them without his explicit say-so. He also sent a message to Jim saying  _"_ _Something's wrong at MI6. Don't_ _reply",_ before deleting it and any trace of it. Then, he turned to the agents with a polite smile. "Ok, all done. Lead the way."

They fell into formation around him, two in front, two behind, and one leading the way. Q's uneasiness rose higher and higher as they walked through the bowls of MI6, and he stopped short when he realized where they were headed.

"Sir," one of the agents behind him said, "please keep moving, Sir."

"I'd like to speak to M, please," Q said evenly, not moving.

The agent leading turned around. His expression was serious but his voice, when he spoke, wasn't unkind. "Sir, we need to go. If you don't walk of your own free will, we will be forced to take matters into our own hands."

Q's mouth went dry and he nodded, jerkily beginning to walk again. This was bad. This was so, so bad. What did they know?  _How_ did they know it? What was going to happen to him? He needed to do damage control, but he couldn't from his position. Shit, shit,  _shit._

He didn't resist when they escorted him into a room similar to the one Bond had done his word-association psych test all those months ago, the set up the same, just a little smaller. Another difference between the two rooms was that  _this_ one had a reinforced door with extra locks.

This was a dressed-up prison cell.

"Fuck," Q said simply, taking a moment to close his eyes and breathe, before striding in with his head held high and taking a seat at the bolted down, metal table.

"Someone will be in to speak with you soon," one of the agents told him, and then they all left, the door clanging loudly behind them.

Briefly, Q wondered why they hadn't handcuffed him, but it was probably obvious; he didn't look like much of a physical threat, really. And it wasn't like he could hack a slab of metal to open the door.

Glancing over to the two-way mirror, Q wondered who was standing behind it. M, assuredly, for one; he was the only person at MI6 who could've authorized the detainment of the quartermaster. That probably meant Tanner, as well, and Moneypenny. A shame; he liked the pair of them. Whoever else was there Q could only guess at.

After twenty-two minutes, the door opened again. Q gave M a polite smile. The elder man didn't return it.

"Out of curiosity, Sir, would you mind explaining what's going on?" Q asked as M sat down across from him, folding his hands on the table.

"I would actually like to ask you the same question," his boss replied, sounding tired and slightly aggravated. Aggravated was kind of his fall-back emotion, though, so Q didn't put too much stock in it. "It seems some information has come to light about your connection to the criminal known as James Moriarty."

Q's heart sped up, his fingers tingling. He showed nothing outwardly.

The hacker frowned. "What?"

M sighed. "There is some evidence that you have ties to the criminal organization he runs. Evidence that you know the man personally."

"What evidence?" Q asked, flabbergasted, staring at his boss incredulously.  _What evidence, what evidence, what evidence? He'd been so careful, what had they found?_

"I'm not at liberty to share that information with you," M replied smoothly.

 _He doesn't know,_ Q realized. It wasn't MI6 that had orchestrated his detainment, it was someone above M's head. M didn't know what evidence because it hadn't been shared with him. Someone with the power to override the head of MI6 suspected him, had some kind of  _evidence._

The breath almost ran out of Q in a rush as he began to understand who this could be. There was only one person with that kind of control, only one person close enough to have realized something.

Q wanted to sob, wanted to scream. It was all ruined. Somehow Mycroft knew something, and now it was all ruined.  _He'd_ ruined it. How had this happened? How had he slipped up?

Was Mycroft behind the two-way mirror right now? They were about two hours from dawn, when Jim and Sherlock would be preparing for their final meeting, the be-all end-all. Mycroft should be out there trying to aid his brother somehow, not grasping at suspicions and locking Q away. What the hell was going on?

"Is my accuser going to speak to me?" Q asked M evenly. "Because you don't know what the evidence is, and you're quite unhappy that you've been forced into this position. With all due respect, Sir, I'd rather speak to the person currently in charge."

To his credit, M didn't look the slightest bit offended. He watched Q for a moment longer, and then nodded and headed for the door. He banged on it twice and it opened for him, giving Q a brief view of the armed guards stationed outside.

It was another fifteen minutes before the door opened again, and Q's breath caught in his throat, his heart almost stopping. He'd known, of course. Known it would be Mycroft. But there was a difference between  _knowing_ and seeing it with his own eyes.

Mycroft slid into the seat across from him, his expression perfectly blank, perfectly unreadable. But Q had been dating this man for three and a half years and he could see the fissures in the stone.

"My," Q said, smiling slightly, keeping his brow furrowed with confusion. "What evidence is there? You know me, Mycroft; why do you think I'm working for Jim Moriarty?"

Mycroft didn't say anything, simply staring at him. Then he said, his tone bland, "Did you know that Moriarty visited Sherlock after he was released back in September?"

Q shook his head. "No, I didn't, but it makes sense. Why?"

"While there, Moriarty said something that stood out to Sherlock, something that implicated you've spent some time around Moriarty."

 _Ah,_ so it was  _Jim's_ fault. Well, that took away a bit of the bruise to his ego.

Q looked at his partner incredulously. "You're joking, right? I've been detained because a criminal mastermind said something that might've implied that I knew the man? Also, if this happened two months ago, why is this only being mentioned  _now?"_

But Mycroft...Mycroft didn't budge. His face was blank, his posture perfect. He didn't say anything. Q was starting to feel seriously concerned.

"Mycroft, you know me," Q whispered. "You know me."

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Then, "When you joined MI6 a background check was done on you, as for all new employees. It was challenging, of courseyou were recruited for your computer abilities, it wasn't surprising to see that you'd attempted to scrub your identitybut a general timeline was put together about the life of Oliver Robert James.

"Only child of a high-class family. Lived in a nice little country house with his parents until the age of thirteen, when his parents died in a car crash. From there he mostly made his own way, getting himself quite the impressive reputation in the underground circles, until MI6 arrested a foreign agent andin an attempt to cut a dealthe man gave up the freelance hacker he'd been using.

"And, of course, there is the matter of Sullivan Andrew James, the elder brother that was covered up in order to  _protect_ him from the illegal dealings of his younger brother. Upon further looking, traces can be found of Sullivan, of courseit wouldn't be believable to  _completely_ erase someone from existence. And-"

"What's the point of this?" Q interrupted, exasperated, slumping back in his chair. "I know my own life, Mycroft."

"But it's not  _your_ life, is it?" Mycroft asked, still so goddamn  _blank._ "Tell me, Mr. James-" Q's breath shuddered, "-what is your mother's maiden name?"

"Sullivan," Q answered immediately, "they named my brother that to honor her family as well. Why does that  _matter?"_

"An Irish last name," Mycroft observed.

Q rose an eyebrow, _"And?"_

"James Moriarty did a pretty good job of having his own history erased," Mycroft said out of nowhere. Q tasted something sour, and concealed his reaction. "Considering who he is, it's understandable that he worked so hard to make sure we didn't find where he came from. Of course, we always have clues, such as his Dublin accent, which give us a starting point."

"Mycroft-"

"I had a few of my agents take a trip there on a longshot. Managed to follow a hunch to this small town called Mitley, middle of nowhere really." Q's heart began to pound. He hadn't heard that name since he was ten years old. "My agents met this old woman by the name of Ellie Mulligan; she used to be a teacher at the local school before she retired, and she recalled the Moriarty family. Do you know what she told my men?"

Q said nothing. Mycroft smiled, but it was a humorless expression.

"James Moriarty Senior was a drunk, and a mean one. He spent a majority of his time beating his two sons and his wife, Ava." Q's hands most definitely did  _not_ shake, pressed against his knees. His parents... "In 1992, the entire family diedJames Moriarty Senior of accidental consumption of sulphuric acid, then Ava and the two sons in a house fire. The bodies were burnt to a crisp."

There were three people he and Jim didn't talk about: Carl Powers, their father, and their mother. It wasn't in an attempt to suppress the memories or anything like that; no, those deaths helped to make them who they are. But it was their holy trinity, their sacred murders. They didn't talk about them. And yet here Mycroft was, jerking them into the light of day...

Q said nothing. Mycroft rose an eyebrow, still humorless.

"Mrs. Mulligan is very old, of course, so when she told us that  _both_ of the boys were named James after their father, we thought maybe she was misremembering things, that there was actually only one son." He tilted his head, the sour smile fading back to blankness. "You asked to be called James so long ago because it made you feel close to your family. I can see why."

"What?" Q asked, stuttering out a laugh, his eyes wide. "It makes me feel close to my family because it's my  _family name,_ Mycroft. My parents are deadin a  _car accident,_ not a _fire_ and my brother is somewhere out in the world and I can't talk to him. Going by my  _last name_ makes me feel _close_ to my  _dead family._ I thought you understood that!"

"It is a family name," Mycroft agreed easily. "It was your father's, and is your brother's, and is yours." His lips twitched. "I can see the family resemblance, now that I'm looking for it. Your features are very similar."

"Mycroft," Q said in concern, leaning forward. "You can't seriously be suggesting that I'm James Moriarty's  _brother."_

"Oh, I'm more than just suggesting it, I'm downright accusing."

"This is insane!" Q shouted. "I've worked loyally at MI6 for almost nine years, I've been  _your partner_ for three and a half of them! I'm not Moriarty's brother!"

Mycroft ignored his words. "Sherlock didn't know what to think, only that life is too random to have such a large coincidence. He kept his suspicions to himself for a long time, and for _that_ he and I will have extensive words. But now, with everything happening, he visited me. Between running from the police for crimes he didn't commit and handling your psychopath of a sibling, Sherlock made time to come tell me what he suspected, because he wasn't sure how this was going to end."

"Jesus  _Christ,_ Mycroft-!"

"Was it a plan from the beginning, or a lucky accident?"

"Mycroft,  _listen_ to me-"

"Tell me the truth!" Mycroft demanded, his voice raising for the first time. "Tell me the truth."

Q stared at his partner with wide eyes, and felt his heart crumbling. No, no,  _no._ This couldn't be happening. It was supposed to end well. He was supposed to be able to decide where they went from here. Sherlock was supposed to die, Jim was supposed to win their stupid game, and Q was supposed to be able to decide what he wanted to do about Mycroft.

It wasn't supposed to...

Fall apart.

Slowly, Q leaned back, straightening in his chair. He made his expression go perfectly calm. He crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. Mycroft let out a slow breath.

"I thought you were suspicious of me, actually," he said lightly, not letting his turmoil or sadness show. He couldn't, not anymore. Mycroft blinked, momentarily surprised, and then calmed himself as well. He saw their roles, now. He rose an eyebrow.

"Before we started dating," Q clarified. "After that initial meeting, I ran into you six times in two months, when I'd never even crossed paths before. You were the famous _Mycroft Holmes,_ and suddenly you were constantly around?" He shook his head, smiling wryly. "I thought you were suspicious of me. It was..."

He hesitated, because  _this_ was the moment, the moment he let it all crash and burn around him. He took a quiet breath, and pushed on. "It was Jim who told me I was overanalyzing, actually, and that you had a crush."

That was a little petty, maybe, and a little rude, but Q thought he deserved it. He was losing his partner; he was bitter, and angry, and sad, and grieving. Sue him if he was going to needle a bit.

Mycroft's jaw clenched briefly before relaxing. "And then?" he asked evenly.

"And then..." Q licked his lips and sighed. "And then I had a job, Mycroft." The elder man squinted away. Q watched him. "By that point, Jim had already set his sights on Sherlock. He believed that making you involved physically and romantically with me would be useful down the line."

"Physically," Mycroft echoed, and turned back to look at Q with a piercing stare. Q's breath caught at the lack of warmth in the look...and at the statement.

"Iwhat?"

"You said  _physically and romantically,"_ Mycroft said, his stare not letting up. "And yet."

Suddenly, Q felt mortified. He glared at the elder man, his expression hardening. "Classy."

Mycroft shrugged a shoulder, and Q realized that he wasn't the only one feeling the urge to be petty and rude. And frankly, Mycroft had more of a right to be that way than Q did. But that comment was a low blow.

"Simply curious," Mycroft said lightly, giving Q a tight smile.

Q could feel his nails digging grooves into his palms. "It was the plan," he said through gritted teeth, because he might not like it but he owed Mycroft this much. "But I didn't lie when I told you what happened to me when I was fifteen. That was real. And I couldn't...I was supposed to..."

He closed his eyes and shook his head, his heart pounding, his lungs feeling tight. He hated reliving this. He hated...He fucking  _hated_ this shitty situation, and having to fucking explain that his trauma wasn't a manipulation, hated even _having_ trauma in the first fucking place, and hated that Mycroft even knew anything about this shit to begin with.

"And I couldn't handle it," Q murmured, his eyes still closed. "All I could feel was _them._ And then you, amazing you...didn't mind." He shook his head again, sighing, and opened his eyes. "It was real, is all I'm trying to say."

Mycroft's expression was unreadable.

Q decided to go for it; what was there to lose? "You won't believe me when I tell you this, Mycroft, but I'm going to tell you anyway; I love you."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and got to his feet. "There's no need for-"

"I'm in love with you," Q told him, giving him a sad smile. "And soon, you'll be going over our every moment together; you've probably already started. You're going to wonder how you didn't see it, you're going to doubt everything I've ever said and triple-check it against everything I've said to anyone else, you're going to talk to every single person I've spent more than five minutes around to see if they've noticed  _anything._

"And because of that, I just need to sayI am in love with you." Mycroft headed for the door. "I started this relationship because of my brother but I love you, My, more than almost anything in the world."

"Goodbye, Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft said forcefully. He reached the door and rapped on it twice.

Q let out a shuddering breath. Mycroft sent him a look at the sound. "What?" he asked, vaguely suspicious.

"Nothing," Q replied absently. "It's justI haven't been called that in a very,  _very_ long time." He let out a sigh. "Goodbye, Mycroft. And...good luck. With what's to come."

The door slamming shut behind his partner felt like finality.

Q put his head in his hands and sent a silent prayer to a god he didn't believe in that Jim was alright. With the rest of the world falling to pieces, Q  _needed_ his brother to be ok.


	13. The Fall (and the heartbreak that follows)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many people seek answers, the past comes back to haunt Q, and someone mourns a death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day guys! Here is my mushy, broken heart of a chapter. Enjoy!

"Has he said anything else?" Sherlock asked quietly, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the man on the other side of the two-way mirror.

"No," Mycroft replied, his gaze just as fixed. James was sitting in that same uncomfortable metal chair, pushing himself into balancing on the back two legs with an odd amount of dexterity. His expression was relaxed, a slight smile curving his lips, but there was something terribly _focused_ in his eyes. It was a familiar look to Mycroft; he'd seen it a thousand times before.

Over the course of the last few hours, Mycroft had been waiting for the Big Change. The moment that came after that initial dropping of pretenses, where all of James' mannerisms shifted, where he dropped the persona he'd created and became who he truly was, the head of a gigantic criminal organization. But that never happened. In fact, what happened was almost _worse._

He was the same. There was nothing about him that was different. Which, of course, did make sense on a levela long-term undercover operative would be more successful if they didn't have to be fake all the timebut Mycroft hadn't been expecting it. Or maybe it was just that he hadn't wanted it to happen.

He hadn't wanted James to stay the same. He wanted him to change, to act like the bad guy he was, not to just stay who Mycroft loved with simply a few extra lies under his belt.

He wanted the traitor to act like a traitor.

"I went in to talk to him again about half an hour ago, just before you arrived," Mycroft added, feeling the need to fill the quiet. He usually took such comfort in silence. But right now? "He didn't say one word, didn't even acknowledge my questions. Just...stared at the wall just above my head."

Sherlock sent him a sharp look, but Mycroft didn't look over at him. "Does that mean you didn't tell him?"

Mycroft ignored the question. "I was thinking of sending James Bond in to talk to him," he mused. "He's decided he's not going to speak to me, which means he'll be a steel trap. But Bond is a  _friend_ of his of sorts, or at least  _was,_ so maybe the agent will be able to relax him enough to get some information."

"Mycroft," Sherlock said quietly, turning to face his elder brother, "you have to tell him."

"Or maybe Alec Trevelyan," Mycroft continued, as if his brother had never spoken. "They've known each other longer, after all. But then again, James and Double-Oh-Seven do have a..." Mycroft smiled sourly,  _"special_ connection, I suppose." Nausea churned his stomach. _What if...?_ "That's something to look into."

"Mycroft-" Sherlock tried again.

"Enough," Mycroft snapped back, his voice raising momentarily. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why are you so set on me telling him?"

"I'd want to know," his brother said quietly. "If you...I'd want to know."

"Well you're not a double agent working at the head of a partially terrorist organization," Mycroft shot back, "so that information would be _readily available to you._ Now, are you going to simply stand there and judge my actions, or are you going to provide anything  _useful?"_

Neither of them said anything for a while. Mycroft watched James momentarily lose his balance, catching himself at the last second to keep from tumbling to the ground.

How had this man fooled them all so thoroughly? How had this thin as rails, dedicated,  _kind_ man convinced them all that he was there friend? How had  _none of them_ questioned a thing? It was truly unbelievable. "Oliver James" worked for MI6 for almost nine years and he passed with flying colors. "Oliver James" dated fucking  _Mycroft Holmes_ for three and a half bloody years and never  _once_ did the elder genius think something was amiss.

 _How?_ How was that possible?

"I can see why he did it," Sherlock said softly.

Mycroft whirled around, looking at his brother with angry exasperation. "He plotted your death!" he shouted. "He destroyed your life! And you _can see why he did it?"_

Sherlock met his gaze levelly, not backing down from his elder brother's fury. Mycroft couldn't read his expression. "Imagine itthe only person you've ever had." He sighed softly and looked back through the mirror. "I can see why he did it, is all."

There wasn't a single thing Mycroft could think of to say. Or maybe it was the other way aroundhe had so much to say, and no way or time to say it.

Pushing it all out of his mind, he picked up his phone and sent a quick message.

Within five minutes  _(and Mycroft couldn't even bring himself to be surprised at how the man must've been waiting upstairs)_ James Bond appeared, looking just as put together and calm as all the Double-Ohs did when faced with a mission. Except there was a cut on his lip, like he'd been punched very recently. Deciding it didn't matter, Mycroft turned to face the agent.

"You called for me?" Bond asked, his eyes flicking briefly over Sherlock. If he was surprised to see Sherlock Holmes alive and in the bowels of MI6, he didn't show it.

"Yes," Mycroft said, smiling tightly. "There is information we want about his organization, and though it's hard to throw Mr. Moriarty off his game, so to speak, having someone he _likes_ being the one asking the questions is more likely to relax him and thus get us what we want." He paused briefly. "So I'd like you to go in there and talk to him."

Bond rose an eyebrow, holding Mycroft's intense stare, and then nodded without saying a word. He turned for the door, heading for the interrogation room/cell.

Sherlock whistled lowly once the agent was gone. Mycroft shot him a look. "What?" he asked tersely.

"Nothing," his brother said, a small smile curving his lips. His eyes didn't meet the humor, though, watching Mycroft intently. "JustI find it amusing, is all. Sending  _that_ particular agent in to speak to Q. Are you hoping to find out if they're secretly lovers, or just if Bond's feelings are reciprocated?"

Mycroft sneered. "Nothing of the sort."

Sherlock hummed. "Right, of course."

Before the elder Holmes could shoot something back, Bond entered the other room, the door clanging ominously shut behind him, loud in the quiet that had reigned. James glanced up, tracking who the new person was, and then his lips quirked into an amused smile. He lowered himself back onto all four chair legs.

"Bond," James said, his voice warm, "I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"But you were expecting me," the agent saidnot a questionas he sat across from the hacker.

"Who did you get into a fight with?" James asked, his brow briefly furrowing as he examined the small cut on Bond's lower lip. Mycroft contained a scowl. "I just saw you yesterday, it couldn't've been from a mission."

"A disagreement between friends," Bond dismissed easily, examining James just as intently.

Neither of them said anything for a while, and Mycroft kept his calm. Bond was an excellent agent, he'd get around to it eventually. He just didn't like it, the pair of them, just...sitting there, saying nothing, doing nothing.

Eventually, after far too long of an oppressive silence, James tilted his head and said, "Not that this isn't  _fun,_ Bond, but do you have any questions in mind? Did Mycroft give you a list, or did he just release you into the wild?"

Bond smirked slightly. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Sherlock's eyes darted briefly over to him before focusing back on the two people past the mirror.

"It was pretty much a  _have at it,"_ Bond confirmed, nodding, and then said, "but there  _is_ something I wanted to ask you about."

"Oh?" James said on a sigh. "And what would that be?"

"Did you know Raoul Silva?"

James looked as surprised as Mycroft felt. Raoul Silva? Why would Bond even ask about that, what indication was there that the Moriartys did work with Raoul Silvathe man who _shot_ Mycroft?

"Pardon?" James asked, getting his expression back under control. But there was a ever-so-slight thrum of tension in his body.

"Raoul Silva," Bond repeated, as if it needed a second saying. "The man responsible for making you the Quartermaster, and for killing the old M, and for shooting your partner. Did you know him? Personally, I mean.  _Before_ the Skyfall event."

James leaned back slowly in his chair and crossed his legs. His eye flicked over Bond's face and then he said, "He said something to you. Before he died, he told you something. What did he say?"

Bond let out a quiet breath. "So you did know him."

James' expression pinched, his eyes twitching in irritation. "I have had the displeasure of meeting him, yes," the hacker said cautiously.  _"Before_ he attacked MI6 and killed a woman I greatly respected. What did he say to you, Bond?"

Mycroft didn't know what to think.

"He told me that we had no idea what we'd gotten ourselves into by putting you at the helm of Q-branch," Bond said. One side of his mouth turned up. "He said that if he survived he'd have to track you down.  _Pretty little thing,_ I think is how he referred to you."

James rolled his eyes.  _"Fuck,_ am I glad that man is dead. A complete and utter pain in my ass."

Bond waited. James rolled his eyes again.

"Before the Skyfall Incident, I met Raoul Silva three times," he said primly. "He hired mewell, hired a Moriarty cybertechto aid in creating some programs." He smiled wryly. "It's why he had access to  _my_ fucking defense protocols."

"So he didn't know your real identity?" Bond clarified.

"Not until the very end," James said. "He called me while he was on the way your manor; to gloat, really. I knew he was going to be dead within a few hours, so I told him the truth."

"Why?"

James didn't reply right away, tilting his head upward to stare at the ceiling. Bond waited patiently. Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on them. Sherlock shifted next to him, a frown creeping onto his face.

"Raoul Silva was an extremely unpleasant man to be around," James said slowly, still staring upward. That thrum of tension was back, worse than before. "He...did not care much for boundaries, and seemed delighted whenever he pressed against mine. Shoved his way in, really. So when I knew it was the end, when I knew he was about to die, I...I wanted him to understand who he'd been fucking with for so long. I wanted him to die knowing how very stupid he'd been."

He let out a slow breath, and then tilted his head again to look at the two-way mirror. His expression was unreadable.

"I lied to you when I told you he was dead, Mycroft," James murmured, and Mycroft froze. "That day, when I showed up the way I was, and told you the man was dead; he wasn't. But I didn't know how to tell you that you couldn't go after him because then you'd know I was a criminal. So I told you the man was dead. But he wasn't. Not until James Bond threw a knife into his back."

For a moment, everything went perfectly still, perfectly blank.

Then, Mycroft doubled over and vomited.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock called in alarm, jerking over to his side. He put a hand on his elder brother's back, an awkward attempt at help, and Mycroft stayed in his hunched over position, sucking in deep gulps of air. "Mycroft, what is he talking about?"

He should've pressed for more information. When Q showed up in his apartment dead on his feet, covered in hickies, practically  _shaking,_ Mycroft should've pressed. But he hadn't wanted to do anything to upset his partner who had just been sexually assaulted and forcing him to talk about it was a fucking horrid thing to do, so he'd accepted the  _He's dead already_ and tried his best to move past it.

But instead of letting Mycroft hunt down the man responsible, James had kept it hidden in order to protect his real identity.

Through all the disgust and horror and fear and despair Mycroft was feeling, he couldn't help but feel the slightest bit  _impressed_ by James' resolve.

Faintly in the background, Mycroft could hear Bond asking James what that meant, and James' quiet response of,  _"That's not a secret for you, I'm afraid. That's something Mycroft deserved to know."_

"Mycroft?" Sherlock questioned hesitantly as the elder Holmes pushed himself back into a standing position. He kept his breathing steady, controlled the nausea in his stomach.

"That's not a secret for you, either, Sherlock," Mycroft found himself saying, watching James' tired expression with an odd tightness in his chest.

* * *

Ok. So.  _Technically,_ Q wasn't lying to Mycroft. Nothing he said about the incident with Silva just then was a lie.

He just also wasn't telling the full truth.

It was a familiar feeling, that. Half-truths and not-quite-lies. He'd spent so many years making that his first instinct that it was as natural as breathing. And now, with his literal life hanging in the balance and only fuck-knew-what going on outside his little cage  _(What happened with Jim and Sherlock? It should've gone down about forty minutes ago. What happened?)_ , he was in full damage control mode.

He was trying to keep the lying to a minimum, for obvious reasons. But that one, about the thing with Silvawell, it was necessary for his own peace of mind.

Mycroft sending Bond in so early was an odd choice to Q. He'd expected the Double-Oh at some pointhe knew Mycroft would pull everyone he was ever close to up to batbut he'd expected Alec first, and even then that would be at least twelve hours away.

He'd expected to be left to stew for a long while. Why was Mycroft rushing things? Was Sherlock dead, so Mycroft was desperate? But that wasn't Mycroft's style. And there was no way to outright  _ask,_ of course.

Q had been glad to tell Bond about Silva. He cursed the dead hacker's name brieflydid he  _really_ have to make a fucking comment to  _James Bond_ before he died?and then enjoyed the ability to share what a monumentally awful person that man had been. He hadn't gotten around to admitting to plugging the computer in on purpose, and he was glad about that; unless necessary, Q was happy to keep that to himself.

Q wondered whether or not Bond would attempt to track down the security feed matching the time Q would've been speaking to Silva on the phone. Going over that conversation in his head, Q figured it wouldn't actually do him any damage if it was seen by MI6 officialsthe big blows were already done, after all.

After Bond's visit, they all left him alone for a while. Q came up with crazy ideas in his head for what would happen nextpsychological torture? If so, what route would they go? Or maybe they'd try drugs, lull him into complacency so he'd talk or amp up his mind to a degree that he'd answer anything just to make it stop. Maybe they'd go with the good ol' fashion physical torture.

He'd never been waterboarded before. Jim always made it sound interesting. But then again, Q didn't have his brother's ability to separate himself from pain.

Which, you know, really fucking sucked.

After about three hours, Q glanced over at the two-way mirror and said, "Is there any chance of getting something to eat or drink? I have a feeling this isn't going to be a  _short-term_ thing, so I'd like to get some sustenance. I haven't had anything in a while."

A half an hour later, a guard brought him a PB&J (which made Q snort) and a bottle of water.

He thanked the man and consumed both slowly, not wanting to upset his stomach considering the fact that he really  _hadn't_ eaten in a while. Bad habit, he knew, but he often got too distracted for basic care such as that.

Mycroft had always helped him be better about it.

A minute or so after he finished the bottle of water, he started to feel woozy. The room started to spin, and he began having hot flashes, his body burning and then quickly switching to chills.

"What...?" He breathed, blinking heavily at the bottle in his hand. He hadn't considered the fact that they'd drug it; he'd figured that if they were going to drug him, they'd just outright do it. But this was cleaner, he supposed.

It didn't  _feel_ cleaner, though. He felt awful, and his pulse was spiking. There were shadows dancing across the walls _hallucinations,_ his mind suppliedand it felt as if there were people in the room with him, but he knew there couldn't have been.

 _It's not real,_ he told himself as the shadows began peeling themselves from the walls.  _It's not real,_ he told himself as they merged with the faceless people and became all too recognizable. _It's not real,_ he told himself as people he hadn't seen since he was fifteen years old made themselves known.

"Mycroft what have you done to me?" he breathed, because every other part of him was frozen. Mikael and Anatoli and Viktor and all the rest of those awful people stood around him, grinning and leering and pressing closer. "What have you done?" Q asked again, an edge of hysteria now to his voice.

 _"Good to see you again, little Jamie,"_ Luka cooed, reaching out to stroke a hand through Q's hair. Q cringed away from the contact and suddenly he could  _smell_ them; their awful cologne, their sweat, the ever-present stench of too much alcohol, and even Q's very own blood.

 _This isn't real, it's not real, none of it is real,_ Q told himself firmly, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to will them away.  _Just the drugs, just whatever the fuck they put in my water. These men are dead. This isn't real._

A large hand landed on his thigh and Q popped to his feet, the chair clattering loudly to the ground as he backed away from the figures.

 _"Don't be like that,"_ Vasily tutted at him, his smile condescending and predatory.  _"It hurts more when you fight, little one."_

"Get away from me," Q got out, his voice strangled. His throat felt like it was closing, his heart beating out of his chest. "Getstay away!"

Yerik backhanded him, and for a moment Q forgot they weren't really there, because  _ow, that really fucking hurt._

Q stumbled away from them, but his back hit the wall. Anton and Frederik stepped up to either side of him and held him there, their hands wandering. Q whimpered.

 _"It is so nice to see you again, little one,"_ Anatoli said softly. He gripped Q's chin, forcing the hacker to look up at him.  _"Your brother interrupted us last time, and we did not finish what we started."_ He stroked a hand down Q's chest, beginning to undo his belt buckle.

Q let out a sob, shaking his head violently. "Stop,  _please."_

_Not real, not real, not real, notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal_

_"Since when has begging ever stopped us, little Jamie?"_ Mikael chuckled, reaching around him to grope his ass.

Q let out another sob and started to hyperventilate.

They let him slide down the wall and he curled up in an attempt to protect himself from their advances, but they didn't leave him alone. Someone took a fistful of his hair and jerked his head up, and he could see the person pulling out their erection and Q couldn't help ithe screamed, his eyes wide with fear, and he felt his pants being removed and another of the men from his nightmares lifted Q's hips, his intentions clear

Then someone was holding him tightly, their arms like metal bands around his chest. Q screamed again, kicking out, fighting against what he knew was coming, but despite the sliding hands on his back and yanking his hair and fondling his balls, this person just held him tightly, pinning him in place. His head was tucked under the person's chin.

He heard, "I'm so sorry, Q," and then there was a prick of a needle on his neck, and then everything faded to black.

* * *

The first thing Q was aware of was  _soft._

The next was that his mouth was very dry, and his tongue felt very thick.

He tried to search his memory, to find how he'd ended up in this particular situation, and then wished that he hadn't. Being found out, his water drugged, hallucinating his rapists and torturersthe past day had not been kind to Q.

Slowly he blinked his eyes open, squinting against the florescent lights to give his eyes time to adjust. He was still in the interrogation room/cell, but he was horizontal and lying on something soft. Last time he'd checked, there hadn't been a cot in the room.

"Welcome back to the land of the conscious," Q heard someone murmur, and twisted his head around until he spotted Alec Trevelyan leaning against the wall a few feet away, his expression calm in the way that Q recognized as the Double-Oh being severely pissed off.

"What...?" Q croaked, unable to get anything else out.

Alec understood what he was asking anyway. "Mycroft and M thought it would be a good idea to drug you in order to make you more likely to speak; they really want those secrets in your brain. So, they used a drug that would target the emotion and fear centers of your brain, thus causing your mind to come up with some wicked hallucinations and make you want to do what you could to stop them."

Q had to admit that yea, he would've given just about anything to have them all stop touching him, if he could've spoken coherently.

"Except what I or James or any other fucking field agent could've told them, had they asked our opinion," Alec continued, his voice tightening with controlled anger, "is that drugs like that _don't_ make subjects talk, they just terrify the ever-living fuck out of them and reduce them to a babbling state. You don't get any  _real_ information. But they  _didn't_ ask us our thoughts, and thus here we are."

"You sedated me," Q mumbled, seeking clarification. He slowly pushed himself into a seated position and saw that yes, he was in fact on a small cot.

Alec shook his head. "Sedation happened, yes, but that was James, actually," he said. "I was the one to grab it and block the door, though, so, you know, team effort."

Q offered the agent a tired smile. He felt such overwhelming gratitude to the pair of them then. He'd been scared out of his fucking mind and on the edge of a full-blown break down. The fact that they pushed him out of that mind state and into unconsciousnesswhile dangerouswas something he was immensely grateful for.

"Don't mention it," Alec said quietly. They'd known each other for long enough that he didn't need Q to say it; he already knew. "You want some water? I got the bottle myself and haven't let it out of my sight, so no drugs this time." He nodded towards the table.

Next to a bottle of water was a wrapped sandwich, as well, but Q's stomach revolted at the idea of putting anything in it.

"Cot?" he asked, getting slowly to his feet.

Alec nodded. "Yea, we brought it in. You were sedated and they didn't want to remove you from this room, so we compromisedyou needed something to lie on instead of the cold cement floor."

"Appreciated," he mumbled, and took a cautious sip of water. His stomach churned for a moment and then settled. He took another sip.

Then he remembered that technically Alec was supposed to be a loyal MI6 agent, and thus probably should've been "upset" with the traitorous Q when there were people watching, and people were _always_ watching.

"You're not angry with me, then?"

Alec rose an eyebrow. "Angry with you?" he echoed.

Q nodded and flapped a hand through the air. "Yes, for the betraying you and everybody else thing."

The Double-Oh made a sound of acknowledgment, examining the younger man closely, and then said, "James and I have been betrayed more times than is healthy," he said slowly. "And so yea, when I learned about this shit, I was pissed. We've known each other a long fucking time, Q, and yet I never suspected..." he shook his head, sighing. "I will carry out whatever orders I'm given by M, but you're still my friend, Q. No matter the shit you've pulled, I know that much."

Q gave him a lop-sided smile, amused by the fake explanation. "Good to know."

They stayed in silence for a while, and eventually Q's stomach was calm enough for him to eat the sandwich, which he consumed slowly just in case.

"What's the plan from here?" Q asked eventually, looking to the Double-Oh.

Alec shrugged a shoulder. "Above my paygrade, apparently. The Powers That Be ordered me against saying anything, even my own vague observations." He rolled his eyes. Q rolled his right back.

A few minutes later there were two hard knocks on the door, and Alec sighed. He pushed himself up from his slouched position at the wall and headed for the door.

"That's my cue," he said, and banged back twice on the door. It swung open, a guard stepping to the side, and Alec briefly turned back to meet Q's gaze. "You can handle it, Q," he said heavily. "You can handle anything."

Q furrowed his brow, knowing there was something else behind that statement but not able to unravel it, and then nodded. "Thank you, Alec."

The agent gave him a roguish grin and a sloppy salute, and then left, the metal door clanging loudly in the silence.

* * *

When Mycroft entered, James was pacing slowly around the length of the room, his head ducked slightly as he stared at the floor. The tilt of his shoulders told Mycroft that he was making patterns out of things no one else could see.

He knew this man's ticks like the back of his hand. How many of them were real? How many put on? And in the end, how much did it fucking matter?

Mycroft didn't hesitate to announce, "Jim Moriarty is dead."

James didn't even glance at him, his footsteps not even hesitating. Mycroft couldn't quite see the younger man's face at this angle, but he got the impression of a smile when he said, "Right, sure. Uh huh," in an easy tone.

Mycroft frowned slightly, watching the hacker continue his pacing, before he walked in and sat down, crossing his legs and folding his hands atop the table. "It's true," he said factually, because it  _was._ Jim Moriarty shot himself so that Sherlock would have to take his own life. To the general public, they were both  _dead._

Only one of them really was, of course. But they were keeping that fact close to the vest for now.

James rolled his eyes and paused in his walking, glancing over at the older man. There was, in fact, a smile curving his lips. His expression was fond and almost... _exasperated._ "C'mon, Mycroft, the drugs route didn't work so now you're trying this? Is that the best you've got? Honestly now."

Mycroft pursed his lips. Drugging James had been a...calculated risk, and one that made Mycroft nauseous to think about, especially since James' sobs of fear  _(a sound_ he'd _caused)_ were on repeat in his mind. It definitely hadn't played out the way he and M had wanted it to, and simply succeeded in pissing off multiple Double-Oh agents.

For such a sociopathic, murderous bunch, they were strangely loyal to each other and to their Quartermaster.

(Alec Trevelyan had apparently told the rest what happened, and now the four Double-Ohs currently in the countryTrevelyan, Bond, Cane, and Walterswere taking rotating shifts guarding James' cell. Mycroft felt like ripping his hair out. M refused to send them away.)

Staring back at James evenly, Mycroft placed the manila folder in the table. James rose an eyebrow, his expression not changing. Mycroft opened the folder and spread out the photos so that James could see each and every one of the six clearly.

As if granting him a favor, the hacker looked down at the pictures with exaggerated slowness, and then just...stopped.

He went still, the amusement in his expression frozen but no longer felt, the loose energy he'd had before now zapped from him. He stared at the photos of his dead brother with what looked like incomprehension for a moment, and then his knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground, a strangled sound forcing its way out of his throat and past his lips.

Mycroft popped to his feet instinctively, watching as the normally so in control man curled in on himself, shaking as he came to the realization that Mycroft hadn't been lying, that his brother was actually dead.

Slowly, after a minute of that, James pushed himself to his feet, swaying where he stood as if he would collapse any moment. His expression was completely dead, his eyes lifeless and desolate. He looked absolutely wretched, like a piece of himself had just been forcibly removed.

It broke Mycroft's heart just a little, and he internally berated himself for it. This man was a criminal, a traitor, a liar, a spy.

 _"Why?"_ James asked hoarsely, staring at the wall just past Mycroft's right shoulder, not actually focused on it.

Mycroft didn't have to ask what he meant. "To deprive my brother of-"

"Of a loophole," James finished, whispering the words as his eyes slid shut, his head nodding slowly up and down. "He killed himself so that Sherlock couldn't force him to change his mind." Mycroft nodded, though James' eyes were still closed. Then the hacker very suddenly screamed, _"GODDAMIT!"_

He whirled around and punched the cement wall, causing Mycroft to wince internally. He didn't outwardly react as James screamed himself hoarse, mourning for his brother, and he didn't try to stop him, either. He knew he could call the guardsor even 009, right outside the doorand have a sedative administered, but it wasn't necessary; James needed to run this course, and Mycroft was pretty sure that James wasn't a danger to Mycroft just then.

A danger to himself, however? Absolutely.

"Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft began patiently, when the younger man's screaming had subsided to harsh breaths and unshed tears.

"Sorry about Sherlock," James interrupted, his voice dull, as he leaned against the back wall and slowly slid down it until he was sitting. He folded his legs and rested his forearms on his knees. Looking up at Mycroft through his fringe, James' eyes were like a void, reminiscent of his late brother.

"Jim's dead so Sherlock's dead, yea? Shame. I'd been hoping that after all this was over, one of us-" his breath hitched, "-would still have their sibling." A wry smile twisted his lips then, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Well. I suppose you  _do_ still have a sibling though, right? She's just a little _occupied."_

Mycroft blinked, and then chastised himself for being surprised; he'd allowed Jim Moriarty to meet Euros,  _of course_ he would've told his brother about her.

He chose to ignore the comment, and ignore the fact that Sherlockwatching from behind the two-way mirrorwas going to have a _lot_ of questions for him. "How much of a role did you play in planning Sherlock's death?"

James' expression twisted, displeased. "In this moment, Mycroft, I couldn't give less of a shit about Sherlock." Mycroft didn't respond, and James wiped a tired hand across his face, sighing. "Believe me or not, but I actually cared a great deal about your brother. When I say it's a shame he's dead, I mean it."

"And yet you helped orchestrate his downfall and coerced suicide," Mycroft replied in a falsely light tone.

James gave him an irritated look and then squinted off at the wall. His jaw was clenched. "I want you to think about a scenario for a second, ok? You don't have to answer it, but just _think_ about it." He looked back to Mycroft, seeking agreement, and after a hesitant moment the older man inclined his head.

"Thank you. Alright, you're four years old. Your dad is drunk, as per usual, and mean, as per usual. You've done something to anger himit doesn't matter what, because _everything_ angers him. And so he slaps you. And then he does it again. And then it's a fist swinging towards your head. Your vision whites out for a moment, you hit the floor, and you look up. You're so goddamn afraid as you watch him getting ready to punch you again, _four fucking years old._ And then, suddenly, your brother is in front of you. He takes the blow himself, blood spurting as it breaks his nose. And then  _he hits your dad back."_

James fell silent. Mycroft matched it, digesting that tale.

"So tell me," James said quietly after a few moments, "what you wouldn't do for him? The only person in your entire life to ever protect you, time and time again. The only person to ever put themselves in harm's way to save you, and just you. The only person to ever try to get to know you, who actually  _understood_ you, who stood by your side through every shitstorm thing that life threw at you. Can you actually look me in the eye and say you wouldn't do anything for them?

"And even putting my sob story aside," James continued, his voice gaining in strength, "consider just your life, as is. Consider if Sherlock did something bad, and I mean  _bad._ You wouldn't even  _hesitate_ to do everything in your power to protect him, yea? Andand if our roles were reversed, if you had to choose between  _me_ and  _your brother,_ we both know who you'd pick, right? That's one thing I always knew we had in common, Mycroft.

"So yes, I helped plan Sherlock's death. In fact I aimed a gun at him with the full intent to take him out way back when they met at the pool. I think your brother was a fantastic man, one I am very happy I got to know, and I am  _sorry_ he's dead. I'm so sorry for your loss, Mycroft, and for John's. But you won't get me to apologize for the part I played in it. But it turns out-" He laughed suddenly, sharp and bitter and slightly incredulous, "Well, it turns out in the end it didn't fucking  _matter!"_

He screamed the last part and slammed his fist against the cement floor. He chest heaved with the force of his breaths, some of them coming out like sobs.

 _The only person you've ever had,_ Sherlock's voice murmured in Mycroft's mind. _I can see why he did it, is all._

"He's dead," James whispered, staring dully at the ground. "He'she's actually  _dead._ He. I. How do I even...? I..."

He took a deep, slow breath in and let it out, and then rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. When he looked back at Mycroft, his gaze was steady, calm, and utterly devoid of life. "Him being dead doesn't change anything for me, Mycroft. I'm not going to tell you anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this made me sad, so I went and watched The Great Game again, which is my favorite episode.
> 
> Also, fun fact: I've had that "Jim Moriarty is dead" scene mostly written since the 5th chapter. It's changed a bit and and been edited as the story went on so that it fit, but overall it's pretty much the same thing. IT HURTS ME SO MUCH. GAH.
> 
> Whelp, hope you enjoyed, and happy V-Day!


	14. The Changing Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a plot is hatched, multiple people surprise Q, and a secret is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again everyone! Glad you're sticking with me after that painful last chapter. I got a LOT of comment haha, it was really great.
> 
> Oof, this is a long one. Normally they're around 6,000 words, but this one is 7,400.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

"So we're in agreement that we can't let this go on, yes?"

"Complete agreement."

"Oh, I'm definitely on board."

"Well, of course, but I don't know what exactly you expect us to  _do_ about it."

"Really? I thought his plan was rather obvious."

"...You must be joking."

"No, I don't think they are."

"I know you're not great at seeing the consequences of your actions-"

"Well  _none_ of us are, really-"

"-But I would hope that the ones for doing this are fairly clear!"

"They are, but that's not the point."

"Of  _course_ it's the bloody point-!"

"It'll only get worse."

"...So _you're_ in agreement with this plan, too?  _You?_ After-"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Bloody hell."

"Does that mean I have your support?"

"Of course it fucking does, you moron. Like we'd ever back down from this."

"Good to know your stunning personality hasn't changed in your time away."

"Fuck off."

"Are we planning this shit or not, children?"

"Yes, I  _do_ hope we're not just winging this."

"Do you  _have_ an  _actual_ plan?"

"Everybody shut up! He has a plan, I helped him make it."

"God help us all, then. The plans the pair of you come up with always end up blowing up in yourand  _our_ faces. Often quite literally."

"Are you in or not?"

"Of course we're bloody well in. Jesus fuck. Just tell us what we need to do."

 _"Thank_ you. Alright, here's the plan..."

* * *

Gareth Mallory was not a hard man to understand.

He'd been told that many times by many people throughout his life, and despite working in a field where inscrutability was typically a helpful skill, he'd managed to get quite far in life without it (see: the current head of MI6).

It had never seemed like an insult, even when people intended it as such. He didn't mind being understandable, because being understandable didn't mean he was easy to be around, and it _definitely_ didn't mean he was easy to be _controlled._

Oliver JamesJames Moriartywhatever the _hell_ you wanted to call the Quartermasterwas one of the few people who had ever encountered Gareth and understood him to a point that he never underestimated him. It was a rarity, that. Often in their line of business if you were found to be readable, you were considered weak. Many made that mistake. Q had never been one of them.

Neither had Mycroft Holmes.

It was one of the reasons he hadn't been surprised when he was informed that they were together. Looking at them both, it made perfect sensecold, intelligent, efficient, ambitious, determined, and dedicated to the cause. Gareth was a smart man but he didn't fool himself into believing that he was anywhere close to their level. It made sense to him that they'd found each other, considering how slow the rest of the world must seem.

The only thing about their relationship that  _had_ surprised him, however, was the fact that they'd managed to have a relationship at all. Because though they made perfect sense, neither of them were individuals who  _had_ relationships. Gareth had always been vaguely curious to ask how they'd ended up together, but considering he was Q's boss and he and Mycroft didn't talk about personal things, he'd resigned himself to not knowing.

And with everything that had now been revealed, he most  _certainly_ was not going to ask.

They were currently discussing strategy in Gareth's office, though he was still struggling to call it  _his_ office, even after all these months. Olivia Mansfield might've been a stubborn pain of a woman, but she'd been a damn good M, and he'd been sad to see her go.

And actually, he'd like to correct his previous statementthey weren't discussing strategy. They were yelling at each other and making no progress whatsoever.

Gareth was trying to be patient with Mycroft, considering the circumstances (it wasn't everyday your partner of three and a half years revealed they were the enemy), but the man was starting to get on his nerves. He refused to see the bigger picture, all under the guise of separating himself from the issue.

That was utter bullshit and they all knew it. Mycroft might've been a cold, heartless bastard, but he was a cold, heartless bastard in love. That made you stupid, whether or not you were Mycroft Bloody Holmes.

For instance, this moment. Gareth was trying to come up with a plan for how to handle the issue of the semi-terrorist sitting in their cell, the man who he'd trusted with his life until very recently. Meanwhile, Mycroft's attitude seemed to be leaning towards  _Let him burn._

Like Gareth saidemotions made you  _stupid._ Especially when trying to prove that you didn't have any.

After at least half an hour of back-and-forth and Gareth defending Q's life, Mycroft said tightly, "Why am I the only person," his voice rising, "who feels betrayed by all this?"

Well,  _now_ they were getting somewhere.

"You're not," Gareth snapped back. "You're just the only one whose betrayal reaches a personal level as deep as it does." Mycroft straightened, clearly trying to head back into his  _None of this bothers me_ mindset, but Gareth didn't intend to let him get that far. "Mr. Holmes, why are you advocating for his termination?"

"Because he's an enemy combatant-"

"Trevelyan?" Gareth prompted.

Mycroft blinked in surprise at the interruption, and then narrowed his eyes, not liking this turn.

006, standing against the back wall, didn't seem pleased to have been dragged into the conversationeven  _less_ pleased about being asked to air Mycroft Holmes' dirty laundrybut he dutifully stepped forward. He most certainly did  _not_ look at Mycroft, his eyes fixed on his boss.

"Mr. Holmes is of the opinion that the Quartermaster should be executed for his crimes because that would simplify the entire situation, not because he _really_ wants him dead. If Q is gone, Holmes doesn't have to worry about his own divided loyalties, doesn't have to question if he's doing the right thing, doesn't have to spend each day knowing that there's someone out there who might've or might not've pretended to love him for three years.

"Plus, you know, enemy combatant."

Mycroft's eye twitched, but otherwise he did not outwardly react, his expression blank. "Oh, is that all?" he asked, his tone scathing. "And what about  _you,_ Agent Trevelyanyou knew Mr. Moriarty far longer than I."

Trevelyan rose an eyebrow, his expression not changing.

See, in the beginning, Gareth had, in fact, been slightly concerned about Alec Trevelyan. Not because he believed the agent to be a traitor, but because out of everyone at the agency, Trevelyan had been the closest to Q for the longesthe was his emergency medical contact, for Christ's sake!and Gareth hadn't been sure how the man would handle everything.

He shouldn't have worried, really. Trevelyan was a Double-Oh; he could handle this shitstorm with a level head.

Just look at James Bond.

Mycroft, it seemed, had reached the end of his rope. He straightened, his expression perfectly wiped clean of any real emotion, and offered them both a tight smile. "If you'll excuse me."

He turned for the door. It opened before he could reach it, Eve Moneypenny walking in with a quick knock.

Gareth liked Eve; she was intelligent, quick on her feet, ambitious, and had a good eye for people. She'd been a good field agent, the mess with Bond notwithstanding. But she would make an even better M down the line.

With a glance, Eve took in the strain of the room, and then turned to Gareth, who waited expectantly. Whatever it was was going to be important, considering she'd just interrupted a meeting with the man who practically ran the United Kingdom.

"Sherlock Holmes entered Q's cell," she told them.

After a pregnant pause, Mycroft Holmes said,  _"Fuck."_

* * *

This first thing Sherlock thought upon entering was, _He looks tired._

Q was hunched over in his chair, his forehead resting against his folded hands on the table. He didn't look up when the door banged open and then banged shut, didn't even flinch or twitch at the noise. Not that Sherlock expected him to, really. His world had already endedsomething as meaningless as a loud sound wasn't going to have any impact on him now.

Sherlock didn't let himself be bothered by the lack of response, striding forward and taking a seat across from the younger man. Knowing Q wouldn't stop him, Sherlock took the opportunity to examine him.

Frankly, he looked like shit. He'd only been locked up for about fifty-one hours, but the weary, tired set to his shoulders and slump of his body made his imprisonment seem much longer. Death of a loved one would do that to you, he supposed. Especially one as important as this.

"Hello," Sherlock said, and

A shudder ran through Q's body, his breathing stuttering for a moment. Sherlock could see Q's eyelids flutter open, then close again, and then open once more, blinking down at the table. His hands clenched at each other, his shoulders rolling faintly. He shook his head side to side, still not raising it from where it rested.

"Tell him," Q said quietly.

Sherlock didn't have to ask who he meant. "I can't."

 _That_ got him a reaction.

Q stood quickly, snapping to his feet. The metal chair clattered forcefully to the floor, echoing loudly, and Q slammed his hand against the table. His expression was furious. His eyes were wet.

"Tell him!" Q repeated, this time a shout. Sherlock leaned back, but contained any other response. "Because you have  _no goddamn idea_ what he's going through right now. John Watson is out there believing you  _killed yourself_ and wondering what he could've done to  _stop_ you, to fix everything and make it right. He's out there mourning for someone he loves _immensely,_ and you're not stopping his heartbreak because  _why?"_

Sherlock didn't say anything, but he didn't need to; understanding dawned in Q's expression, and the hacker laughed, a tad hysterical, definitely bitter. Slowly, he picked up his chair and sat back down, staring at Sherlock with a sardonic smile.

"Oh,  _I_ see," he said calmly. He tilted his head, the movement sharp in a way that reminded Sherlock distinctly of Jim Moriarty. How he hadn't noticed the similarity before, he wasn't sure. "You're planning out going out into the world and destroying our-" he breath hitched momentarily, so fast that it was barely noticeable, "empire, our life's work. You don't want to tell John you're alive because you don't plan to return home for a long while."

Sherlock inclined his head. Q laughed again, shaking his head. "What utter  _bullshit,_ Sherlock. What. Utter. Bullshit."

They sat in silence, then, just watching each other.

Sherlock suddenly realized that he missed his friend. The one who always called him out, the one who could match his wit, the one that always seemed to understand the war within him, the one between logic and heart. He missed their weekly coffee, missed the snarky voice on the other end of the line whenever he called the hacker to complain, missed having someone on his level that didn't sneer at him like his brother.

Sherlock missed his  _friend._

"I was curious about something," Q said, leaning back in his chair. All at once he seemed to relax, the tension from before sliding right out of him. Sherlock examined him intently, but hard as he tried he couldn't spot any remaining signs of his grief, save the dead, hollow look in his eyes.

"And what's that?" the detective prompted.

"What was it that Jim said?" Q asked. "Mycroft told me that the reason you figure this all out was because  _Jim_ said something, something that made you see us as connected-" He blinked. "Ah. When you asked me about phrases and coincidences, that was about me, wasn't it?" Sherlock nodded. Q let out a quiet, brief chuckle. "Well. Alright. What did Jim say?"

Sherlock saw no reason to lie. _"And satisfaction brought him back."_

Q's eyebrows shot up. "Oh my god, seriously? That fucking response is the reason you figured out that I must be Moriarty's brother?"

"Well technically, I simply figured out that you spent a lot of time around him," Sherlock clarified. "It was Mycroft and his people that then made the final jump to reach the truth."

Q nodded slowly, thoughtfully, and then he began to laugh. Full-bodied, shaking with it kind of laughter. The kind that came with actual joy, that brought tears to your eyes, that was infectious enough to make everyone around you laugh as well. Now, it simply sounded distorted, like a parody of happiness. Sherlock had a feeling that a majority of Q would be like that now, now that his brother was dead.

"Oh my god," Q said again, his laughter fading to giggles fading to a lopsided smile. "Holy shit, Sherlock. Bravo. Well done. Awfully clever."

Sherlock inclined his head in thanks, and could hear an Irish accent drawling out much the same compliments.

"Alright, you have questions," Q said, smile fading, an appraising tilt to his chin.

He was right, of course; Sherlock had  _many_ questions, and no idea where to start. The puzzles? Carl Powers? Dating Mycroft? Their friendship? Strapping a bomb to John? The cabbie?

Well, the beginning was as good a place to start as any.

"Have you been observing me since the death of Carl Powers?" he asked. Q's lips twitched at the name, but Sherlock couldn't tell with what emotion.

"No," the hacker replied. "In fact we didn't even know you existed back then. It wasn't until I was working at MI6 that we discovered you."

Sherlock tilted his head, a silent question for extrapolation. Q obliged.

"I'd been working in Q-Branch for just about three years. Jim called me one day, told me that someone was messing with our things." He gave Sherlock a wry smile, and the detective saw where this was going. "Some of our jobs were being unraveled. Just a few, nothing huge, but in our business even a tiny loss is important. And so we looked over the cases and saw that each of them was worked by Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

"We were confused; looking at Lestrade's records showed that the DI was by no means an  _idiot,_ but he wasn't even slightly  _exceptional,_ either. Which meant there was something suddenly making him awesome. Corruption? A mole in our operation?

"Instead, it led us...to you." Q smiled again, softer, almost amused. It seemed genuine, but his eyes this entire time had remained dead. "Just about nine months out of rehab, attaching yourself to Lestrade because he let you look at cases, and then actually let you onto crime scenes. And since we found  _you,_ we found the nine-year-old rich boy who declared Carl Powers was murdered because his shoes were missing.

"Thus began _The Game."_

Sherlock allowed himself a few moments to process this. He'd never been sure, really, when he'd garnered Moriarty's attention. Had it been an eye on him from the beginning, or a sudden spark somewhere along the line? He wasn't sure what outcome he'd been hoping for, but he was neither happy nor disappointed with the result.

"I detested you and your entire existence in the beginning," Q murmured thoughtfully, frowning down at the table.

Sherlock blinked. "Pardon?"

Q's lips twisted upward into a small smile, bitter and mocking and self-admonishing. "When we learned about you, Jim was so  _excited._ You were someone who had simply  _seen_ him, from the very beginning, even if you weren't aware of it. You'd started your life's work the same day he had, too, which was another connection. He saw a mirror in you, slightly distorted."

He shook his head. "The only people we'd ever had were each other, and suddenly he was hanging all his hopes and dreams on someone else. I was..." He rolled his eyes. "Plainly, I was jealous. I'd never connected with anyone the way Jim suddenly was, and I wanted that kind of surety for myself. Jim was it for me. And he drew so many parallels between you and I..." He sighed. "So I made his wishes come true.

"And," Q laughed, a quiet, breathy sound, "and learning your  _name._ God, that was a nightmare."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked. His name? What did that have to do with anythi

_Oh._

"Mycroft," Sherlock guessed. "You already knew about Mycroft, which meant that suddenly your brother was obsessed with the brother of the man who runs it all." He paused. "I bet that was infinitely irritating."

That startled a laugh out of Q and for a single moment his eyes sparkled,  _life_ in them, before it faded. "It was! Good lord, I almost blew a gasket. And then Jim had the  _nerve_ to sayin the face of my full-blown outrage _They're separate entities, Jamie._ I was ready to strangle him, I tell you."

Sherlock couldn't help ithe laughed, his eyes tearing up. He could picture the scene so clearly, and it was utterly ridiculous. Jim Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime, bickering with his little brother about the Holmes siblings. He could see Q's expression perfectly in his mind, having been on the receiving end of it a few times himself.

Q stared at him for a few moments, looking mystified by Sherlock's overwhelming humor, and then the amusement caught him as well, the laughter contagious, and then they were both doubled over in their seats, cackling away.

That was how Mycroft then found them.

The door to the cell slammed open, the elder Holmes striding in furiously only to spot his little brother laughing his fool head off with the man who had lied to them for years. Mycroft's mood switched in an instant from worried and furious to long-suffering and furious.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said tightly, "get  _out."_

Frankly, Sherlock pitied his brother. They didn't see eye-to-eye on about 99% of things, but what had been going on the last day and a half was something no one should have to experience, and he was attempting to be sympathetic to that fact. But  _also_ frankly, Sherlock thought his brother needed to stop being such an ass. Mycroft was 100% fully justified to be angry and heartbroken and feel betrayed, but he was trying too hard to take himself to the opposite end of the spectrum. It was a dangerous thing to do.

It was also an  _irritating_ one.

And if he was being honest, looking at the pair of the pair of them, Sherlock pitied Q as well.

"Let him stay," Q said, having sobered up very quickly upon the appearance of Mycroft. "I'll answer his questionsalready have beenand don't you want to know all my little  _secrets?"_

Then a ghost of a smile passed over Q's face, his eyes locked on Mycroft's, and he said, "But you're  _worried,_ aren't you? Worried I'll say something you'd rather Sherlock didn't hear." He leaned back in his seat again. "You have to weigh the pros and cons, Mycroftthe things I'll tell Sherlock that  _you_ want to know, versus the things I'll tell him you'd rather sweep under the rug."

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line and didn't break the eye contact. Sherlock could see something passing between the pair of them, then Mycroft's jaw clenched and he said, "I'd ask you not to, but I don't believe you'd honor it even if you  _did_ agree."

Something flashed through Q's eyes, something that looked like hurt, and then his expression went perfectly blank. "I've never broken a promise, Mycroft. If you asked, and I said yes, then I'd keep your secret."

Suddenly, Sherlock felt like he was intruding on a private moment. Normally he didn't much care about things like that, but right now he was dealing with two people who weren't really open about their emotions, and yet they both seemed so  _vulnerable_ in this moment.

He could see his brother debating, too. Debating with himself whether or not to ask Q. Because asking, having to  _request_ something from Q, would put the control in the younger man's hands, and in their current situation that was something Mycroft  _really_ didn't want to do. All of this was making Sherlock  _desperately curious._

And so, predictably, instead of asking, Mycroft came up with a threat instead. "This is considered a secret of national importance. If you reveal it to Sherlock, you will be locked away in a very tiny, very  _dark_ hole that doesn't legally exist."

Q smiled humorlessly, but didn't say anything. He didn't have to; Sherlock knew what was going through his mindQ didn't give a single shit about being locked away. He'd lost everything he'd ever cared about these last couple days; a tiny pitch-black cell didn't matter to him at all.

And they all knew it, too. So really, in this moment he could say it. Whatever this secret was, Q could spill it right now and still not give a damn about the promised consequences.

Because of that, it didn't make sense when Q looked at Sherlock and said, "Goodbye, Sherlock. I hope we get to see each other again. And I hope you reconsider telling John the truth."

Both Holmes men blinkedboth surprisedand then both narrowed their eyes.

"Are you-" Sherlock began, but the words died in his throat when the hacker's gaze dragged away from him and landed on Mycroft. He shifted awkwardly.

"Take your brother-" another hitch, so quick, barely there, "-and  _go,_ Mr. Holmes. I'm sure you'll stop by again sometime soon."

And Mycroft did something Mycroft rarely did, especially in matters of statehe hesitated, watching Q like he  _knew_ he was missing something, and Sherlock had to admit to feeling the same.

But there was nothing to say.

So, they left.

* * *

Q's mind didn't work like Mycroft's or Sherlock's, with hallways and filing cabinets and places where information was neatly stored away for future viewing.

Q's mind was more like a tornado.

(Jim's analogy, not Q's own. But it fit.)

When Q had been fifteen, right before he was taken but those fuckers in the Russian mob, he'd experimented with drugs. A sociopath's curiosity. And after the testing, he hadn't ever wanted to do it again. Because, as he described the feeling to Jim, it slowed him down too much.

(It was the same reason Sherlock kept  _up_ with drugs, actually, and something neither genius could understand about the other.)

For Q, everything, all the time, felt like it was moving. He'd lived with such chaos since he was born  _(unstable home, abusive parent, murderous sibling)_ and so it never felt unusual to him to have a million things running through his head at all hours of the day.

He  _understood_ chaos. He lived his life in perfect control and loved it. Q was based in logic and precision and the way things clicked together  _just so._ His emotions didn't cloud his judgment. He wasn't Jim; he didn't live his life placing everything on  _mood._

But his mindthe whirlwind, never-ending movement, information whipping past and crashing together and then ripping apart again only to hit something else, everything a mess, everything equal and everything just as connected to everything else simply because none of it is.

It sounded terrifying. It sounded like the opposite of everything Q valued. It sounded like his greatest enemy.

And yet, when he tried heroine and his mind went quietwell, that silence was one of the most terrifying things he'd ever experienced.

The problem, however, with a mind like that, was that when other people provided outside influenced to mess with it, it interrupted the normal chaos of Q's tornado, and tossed everything out of whack. Such as, for example, a drug that made him hallucinate his abusers.

Everything had felt a little  _off_ after that, but not so much as to be cause for concern. Besides, he had  _so many other things_ to be concerned about than his maybe-unstable mind. Most of him was even attributing the strangeness to

...To Jim's death.

But it was really hard to brush off the unstable thing that happened next.

Sherlock and Mycroft had left about an hour ago, and no one had returned yet. He was sitting in that same, stupid, uncomfortable metal chair, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. He was trying these old calming techniques he'd learned. He needed them, with everything happening, even if they didn't really seem to be working. And then

_"What is it that you are doing, bonito?"_

Q went still and stopped breathing for a moment. Then he rolled his shoulders and pulled back his evenness of before.  _In, out. In, out._

"You aren't real," Q muttered.

 _"Of course not!"_ the voice replied joyfully. Q heard the man's footsteps  _(notrealnotrealnotreal-)_ approach him, felt the presence of someone standing next to him  _(not **real-).**_ _"But why does that matter? I am still here."_

"No you  _aren't,"_ Q hissed. He still didn't open his eyes. The man sat on the edge of the table and sighed, heavy and put-upon.

_"Look at the mess you are in, Oliver. Are you reconsidering my offer now?"_

"You aren't real," Q said again. "You're just something that shook lose after what Mycroft and M gave me."

The man hummed in agreement.  _"Quite. And so why don't we enjoy our time together?"_

Q let out a laugh and his eyes slid open. He felt such a strong sense of déjà vu in that moment, sitting with this man perched on a tabletop next to him, so very close. The same slick smile, the same cock of his head, the same intense gaze when he stared at Q.

Raoul Silva hadn't changed at all. Considering he was all in Q's head, that made sense.

"What do you want?" Q asked. "Why are you here?"

Silva rose his eyebrows and looked around in an exaggerated fashion.  _"I think you should be asking_ yourself _that question, bonito. I'm all in your head, remember?"_ He grinned devilishly and wiggled his eyebrows.  _"Were you_ missing _me, my dear?"_

Q snorted and rubbed his eyes. Fuck, he was so  _tired._ He wanted to sleep for a week. But he couldn't show that much weakness. He couldn't just lie down and let them all do what they wanted. Jim would've murdered him if he did such a thing.

"Hardly," Q said dryly.

 _"Then tell me,"_ Silva murmured, his gaze keen, his voice leading.  _"Tell me why I'm here. That drug sent you into disarray, but it's out of your system by now. So_ why _, little one, am I here?"_

Q looked at him sharply. "Do not call me that." He had enough phantoms in his mind calling him  _little one;_ he didn't need another.

_"Why am I here, Oliver?"_

"Why are you calling me that?" Q asked, exasperated. "You know it's not my name; why refer to me by a false identity?"

Silva's gaze didn't let up.  _"I'm in your head, bonito. Why do I do anything?"_

Q groaned. This was fucking ridiculous. If he wanted riddles he would have his mind spit out someone he actually  _liked_ to give them, such as Jim.

God, he wanted to see Jim again. Why couldn't his now-crazy have started with the person who started it all those years ago? He could be ok with hallucinating a figure if that figure was Jim. At least he'd have a piece of his brother back, no matter how small.

But no. Instead, he got Raoul Fucking Silva, the plague of his existence both in life  _and_ in death.

 _"Come now, you're a clever boy!"_ the cybercriminal said on a chuckle.  _"Why am I here?"_

"Because I was drugged!" Q snapped. "Because something in my mind isn't clicking right anymore and-"

 _"I'd say a lot isn't clicking right,"_ Silva mused.  _"What's that have to do with me?"_

"I don't know!" Q shouted. He got to his feet, suddenly feeling too much energy to sit still, and paced the room. "You died, and I am so fucking _glad_ you're gone, you fucker. You were poised to ruin  _everything._ If James Bond hadn't killed you, Sebastian was waiting in the wings to finish the job. If MI6 hadn't burned your body I would go to your grave every goddamn day and dance on it.

"You are a vile,  _despicable_ man who never cared for anyone but yourself and took pleasure out of getting under my skin, so really," he barked out a laugh, "it makes  _perfect_ sense that you would pop up again. You absolute  _fucker-"_

 _"Oliver!"_ Silva shouted. He moved around the table, facing Q.  _"Breathe."_

Q sneered. "Who are you to fucking tell me-"

 _"Let me get this straight,"_ Silva interrupted, his eyes narrowing coldly,  _"You're losing your mind, hallucinating dead criminals, and all you want to do is yell at me?"_

Q considered it. Then, "Yes, I think I do."

Silva stared him for another few moments, almost incredulous, and then started to grin. He sat on the table, one leg swinging absently as he watched Q.

 _"Should I repeat the question from before?"_ he inquired.  _"Should I once again prompt you, bonito, or do you think you can get there on your own?"_

"Arrogant motherfucker," Q muttered. He rubbed a hand down his face again and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He needed to think. He wasn't  _really_ going crazy, but he was off-balance, and he was hallucinating. Those were undeniable facts.

"Why are you here?" Q asked once more, but this time it was rhetorical, this time he was trying to figure the answer out himself. He went over the facts.

"I was drugged by Mycroft and M. The drug made me hallucinate the people who abused me when I was fifteen. Alec and Bond then sedated me to stop the fear response, which can be dangerous to mix but the good outweighed the risk. Overall things felt off afterwards which was to be expected, and also easily attributed to the fact that my brother was murdered."

 _"He shot himself,"_ Silva corrected.

"Do I look like I want your input?" Q snapped, but had to acknowledge the truth of that statement. Still.

Silva put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and then rose an eyebrow, prompting Q to continue.

After glaring for a moment longer, Q did. "Ok. So. Jim...dead. So my mind was already fucked up, then my brother died pointlessly which by _itself_ would've fucked me up. So those things mixed has somehow shook  _you_ loose? Why? Why does that make sense?"

 _"You tell me, Oliver,"_ Silva murmured.

"Unhelpful," Q shot at him, rolling his eyes. "And stop fucking calling me that, jesus fuck. Oliver was never my name."

 _"But it's how I knew you,"_ Silva said, shrugging a shoulder.  _"A fancy, powerful last name doesn't make you stop being the traumatized, genius hacker that I wanted to recruit. And fuck."_

"Yea, well, my name doesn't really mean shit for me anymore, does it?" Q snorted. "I might as well still be Oliver James, the traumatized, genius hacker you met."

 _"I don't mind that version of you,"_ Silva told him, flashing a grin.  _"Frankly I preferred that version of you to the mess that is the younger James Moriarty. The Oliver James I met had a plan for life and was not going to let anything or anyonenot even a criminal harassing him at every turn-"_ a quick wink,  _"-stand in the way."_

"That's who James Moriarty is, too," Q said, scowling. "But without Jim-"

 _"Without your brother,_ what? _What are you without him, bonito? A scared little boy? A victim? A freelance hacker with no purpose-"_

"Excuse you?" Q said coldly.

Silva smiled.  _"There you are, lovely Oliver. There you are."_

That pulled Q up short. "Pardon?"

 _"Why am I here?"_ Silva asked instead of explaining.

"What the fuck!" Q screamed. He wanted to throw things, but there was nothing in his little room to throw. The feeling was deeply dissatisfying. "The fuck does it  _matter?_ Honestly, why does it  _matter?"_

 _"Because you want to know,"_ Silva said easily, his eyes sharp as he watched Q pace.  _"Because you're_ so close _to an answer and there's no way you're dropping the scent now. Go back to your train of thought from before, Oliver. Just a few more stones."_

The downside of Silva being nothing more than a figment of his imagination was that he couldn't punch the man. Punching the cybercriminal was one of his best memories.

"Fine," he said tightly. "Fine. Alright. Drugged. Hallucinated abusers. Sedation. Dead brother-"

 _"No, no, no,"_ Silva tutted, shaking his head in disappointment. Q's irritation spiked.  _"Break it down further."_

"What does that even  _mean?"_ Q demanded. He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. His headache from before was coming back full force. "What do you _want_ from me?"

 _"Break it down, bonito,"_ Silva repeated, his voice almost gentle.  _"Start again."_

Q's eye twitched, and he had the childish urge to tell his hallucination to fuck off thank you kindly. But he wanted to know; he'd dug himself this far into this crazy ass conversation. He couldn't just stop now.

He'd never been good at giving up.

"Alright, let's _break this down,_ then. I was drugged."

_"Good beginning. By who?"_

"Mycroft and M."

_"Who are?"_

"My partner and my boss."

_"Why?"_

"Because they wanted to get me to spill some secrets about Jim and my organization."

_"Which all together means?"_

Q shrugged, exasperated. "It means they were doing their jobs! It means they made a calculated risk to drug their prisoner and get answers from him."

 _"Sure, bonito. What else?"_ Silva prompted.

"If you have all the answers," Q said tightly, "why don't you  _say them?"_

Silva smiled.  _"What would be the fun in that?"_

"Dammit Silva!" Q yelled. "Either get the fuck out of my head or give me a straight response!"

The cybercriminal narrowed his eyes and then stood up. He approached Q, prowling like a predator, and Q refused to back down, meeting his intense look with a glare of his own.

 _"Fine, Oliver. Let me tell you what you already know and yet refuse to acknowledge. You want to know why I'm here, why you_ brought _me here? Because you're alone!"_

"Excuse me?" Q asked, outraged.

_"You. Are. Alone. You can surround yourself with the dear colonel Sebastian and your parade of strangely loyal Double-Ohs. You can even claim the friendship of the younger Mr. Holmes, maybe even hold close to yourself the fact that the elder still loves you, even if he won't admit it. And then you have an entire empire still at your fingertips, yes? But out of all of them, out of everyone on that listwhich of them sees all of you and wants everything you are? With your brother gone, who remaining still understands you fully, who doesn't want to ignore some aspect or another?"_

"Sebastian is-"

 _"Is very loyal, yes. But will you honestly attempt to claim that he is close enough to your level to give you the same peace of mind that Jim Moriarty did?"_ Silva shook his head, and was now close enough that Q could feel his body heat.  _"You are alone, Oliver. Even if you get out of here and are once again surrounded, you will always be alone."_

Q laughed a little, shaking his head right back. "So  _you're_ claiming that my brain made you up because-"

_"Because two people you still somehow trust betrayed that tenuous feeling, you were forced to face a large group of men who did many horrible things to you when you were unable to defend yourself, and the only person to know every facet of you is now dead. Jim is dead, Oliver, and you are lacking in understanding company."_

"Are so you're here to fill that void?" Q asked derisively. "You're here to keep me  _company?_ Seriously, that's your argument? After  _everything?"_

 _"Say what you will about me,"_ Silva replied, completely unbothered,  _"but I understand you, and you understand me. I enjoyed Oliver James immenselynot just the MI6 Quartermaster everyone here knew, but the messed up, genius hacker who played both sides of the law and stood boldly in the face of his fear when I pushed a little too far. I respected that man immensely, bonito."_

Q rolled his eyes and sneered. "Oh, give me a break. You didn't  _respect_ me, you thought I would be easy to control because of my  _trauma."_

 _"I tried to control you through your boyfriend and sweet little government job,"_ Silva pointed out.  _"I may have pressed and pressed at your boundaries, bonito, but I_ never _tried to use it to control you."_

"This is fucking ridiculous. You're trying to make it seem like you  _care_ about me, which is the most severe bullshit I've ever heard."

 _"Maybe,"_ Silva agreed, grinning and nodding,  _"maybe. But you're the one who is hallucinating me, Oliver. Maybe you needed a reminder."_

"A reminder of  _what?"_

_"Of who you are."_

The door slammed open then. Q whirled around to face it, immediately going tense, and then his eyes went wide at who he saw.

"Come on, Q," Alec said brightly, nodding towards the exit. "It's time to go."

Q glanced around the cellSilva was gone. He looked back at Alec, and then up at one of the security cameras, raising an eyebrow.

"Turned off," Alec said, "and will be for the next eight minutes. This is an  _escape,_ Q! Time to move."

He didn't have to tell Q again.

"What's the plan here?" Q asked as he headed for the door. "You and I are going to attempt to get out of HQ all by ourselves?"

"Not... _quite_ by ourselves," Alec replied.

"What do you mean by-?" Q stopped when he saw the second person standing in the hall, his jaw dropping.

James Bond rose an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips. "It's a rarity to see you at a loss for words, Q."

_James Bond is helping a traitor escape from MI6 custody._

"You look like hell, is all," Q said smoothly, striding into the hall. "It's hard to see an agent is his prime looking so  _run down."_

Bond rolled his eyes, but the smile didn't fade, and he began leading the way down the hall, gun drawn. Alec had his pulled, as well.

"Give me a-" Q began, and then deftly caught the handgun Alec tossed to him. Q checked it over, cocked it, and then got into position. He could feel the quick glance Bond sent him, and realized this was the first time the agent had seen him be anything other than a Quartermaster. He'd never seen Q shoot or fight or take down countless opponents. Q was kind of looking forward to showing him.

"So, what is the plan, gentlemen?" Q asked quietly as they made their way through the halls. "We have a long way to go to get out of this building, and there are countless cameras."

"Ye of little faith," Alec said with a roguish grin.

"We have an excellent plan," Bond agreed. "With various, wonderful safeguards."

Q gave them both a dubious look. "Plans the pair of you come up with tend to have explosive consequences."

Alec and Bond shared a glance. "That's what Cassandra said," Alec mused, "no one has any faith in us, James."

"Waitwhat? Cassandra? As in 009?  _She's_ in on this too?" Q asked incredulously, sure he must've misheard. There is no way more than one loyal Double-Oh was helping to break him out.

"Not just her, god help us all," another voice drawled.

Q whipped around, gun raising in an automatic response. If he thought he couldn't get any more surprised, he was wrong. Waiting at the end of the hall by the elevator was 003Jason Waltersand 008Bill Timothy.

"What the hell is going on," Q asked, mystified, not really expecting a response.

Walters smiled at him as they approached. "No idea what you mean, Quartermaster," he said breezily, "I'm simply out for a stroll."

"Uh huh," Q said slowly. They were all smirking in some fashion or another now, which wasn't all that unusual for Double-Ohs, but seriously _what the fuck?_ "Like your  _stroll_ through France two months ago?"

003 at least had the decency to wincethey  _all_ knew about that fuckup of a missionand then Timothy tossed Q something. He caught it from the air out of instinct, and then frowned down at the black packet in his hand.

"Please tell me this isn't what I think it is," Q said, staring down at it.

"Afraid so, Q," Alec said, chuckling.

Q looked up at them all and deadpanned, "And we were doing so well."

"What, your life's goal  _isn't_ to leave MI6 in a body bag?" Bond asked, raising an eyebrow. "Wouldn't have expected it. Here I was, thinking _everyone_ wanted this place to kill them."

"No," another voice down the hall said, and this time Q didn't react, immediately recognizing it _(but I_ must _be wrong-)._ "That's just all you Double-Ohs, James. The rest of us have a healthy love of being alive. Hello, Q."

"Hello, Eve," Q replied, keeping his voice even. She gave him a brilliant smile as she came into his line of sight, and then looked around at the other agents with a raised eyebrow.

"Well? We don't have all day, gentlemen; R will only be able to reasonably keep the cameras off for another five minutes."

_R? How far did this conspiracy go?_

"Ok, am I missing something?" Q asked firmly, waiting for one of them to provide an explanation. "Because as far as I'm aware, I am still an enemy of the crown, and all of you are _quite_ loyal to it."

"They were torturing you," Walters said bluntly, as if that was the only explanation needed. And, glancing at the expressions of everyone else, they seemed to share that same honest caring.

"It was only going to get worse," Bond said quietly, holding Q's gaze with steady confidence.

Q nodded slowly, because it was. They all knew it, after that mess of a drugging. But he'd never expected...

"Alright, so, I'm just going to get into the body bag?" Q asked wryly, unfolding the thing.

"Pretty much," Alec agreed. The elevator door opened, a stretcher waiting inside. Timothy held the door open. "Get in the bag, Q, and let us wheel you out."

After a moment's hesitation, Q did as instructed. Either they were taking him to freedom or this was an elaborate trap. Either way, it was better than the monotony of being in that godawful room.

Being inside the body bag felt terribly claustrophobic, and Q focused on his breathing as they rode up in the elevator. He couldn't see anything anymore so he relied very heavily on sound, listening as they stopped briefly and a couple people got off, quickly muttered words being exchanged about the next step.

The next time they stopped, Q was wheeled out, and he heard Cassandra Cane009say, "You all took your dear sweet time, didn't you?"

"Traffic was hell," Bond replied dryly, and then they kept moving.

A door opened. Q smelled fresh air. The stretcher bumped over gravel. A car door opened. The stretcher lifted, slid in. Bond murmured, "See you when I see you, Quartermaster." The door slammed shut. The car started and pulled away.

Q didn't move. He didn't know if it was safe to give himself away, who was driving the car, where he was even headed. He stayed silent, his breathing shallow to not move the bag so much, just in case.

After about an hour and a half, the car pulled to a stop. The back door opened. Someone stepped inside. Q held his breath as the zipper on the body bag was pulled down.

"Hi there, Jamie-James. Long trip?"

_Jim._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'mon, you didn't really think I'd kill off Jim, did you? I love the guy! Plus you can pry my belief that he's still out there in cannon from my cold, dead hands.
> 
> See y'all next time! Comments always welcome :)


	15. The Deceptive Fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond makes a choice, Mycroft gets a surprise visitor, and Q and Jim seek assistance from an unlikely source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is suuuuuuuppppeerrrrrr late - sorry!! I got really caught up in this other ship and literally couldn't think about any other plot until I'd written a lot about them. (For any Dick/Slade fans, I've posted a fuck ton about them.)
> 
> Anyways, this chapter is here now! Hope you enjoy!

James Bond could count on one hand the number of people he trusted.

Alec Trevelyan, Cassandra Cane, Eve Moneypenny, and the Quartermaster. The old M used to be on that list, but the new one certainly hadn't earned his belief yet. Alec had gotten it so many years ago that James could barely remember a time he  _didn't_ trust Alec, and somewhere along the way 009 and Eve had wormed their way in as well.

Q, though. He'd trusted Q from the very first moment the Quartermaster proved that he was more than just a pretty face, maybe even from the first moment they met. He trusted Q to have his back, to fight for him and the other agents and even for MI6. Trusting Q had never been a conscious decision, it had simply happened.

And with that trust had come...other emotions. He kept them to himself  _(other than a little flirting, of course, because he was James Bond and was known for flirting with everything that moved)_ because Q was in a long-term, happy relationship, and he cared for Q too much to fuck up his life.

But, as it turned out, he needn't have worried about that. It appeared that Q was completely adept at fucking up his  _own_ life.

When James learned what Q had done, who the young quartermaster really was, Vesper Lynd popped into his mind. They looked slightly similar, he supposed, coloring-wise. Black hair, blue-green eyes, pale skin, slim build. An argument could be made that he had a type, not just in looks but in intelligence, ruthlessness, wit, charm, beauty.

And, apparently, a type for those who would inevitably betray the trust he put in them.

After learning the truth, James had stood aimlessly in the hallway before Q-Branch, unsure of what to do. He'd been on his way to bug the quartermaster, a familiar pastime. Then he'd shaken himself from his daze and headed straight for a pub, intent on drowning the conflicting things he was feeling, but instead he stood aimlessly outside the bar just like Q-Branch.

It was like that that Alec found him and dragged him off to grab a bite to eat. His friend's expression was grave, the weight of the world appearing to rest on his shoulders.

"Do you still care about him?" Alec had asked, watching James closely. He was looking for something, that much had been obvious, James just didn't know what he was hoping to find.

"What would it say about me if I did?" James had replied, poking aimlessly at the food in front of him. He'd ordered randomly, some stupid pasta dish. He had no intention of eating it.

Alec's lips had quirked upward into a smile. "It would say that you're human, and that you know he has your back."

"He's a traitor," James had replied, the words hollow in his mouth, a spark of anger in his gut. "He's been betraying our country for yearshow could that possibly mean he has my back?"

"Look at every mission, James. Every mission he's ever run for you, or me, or any of the other million agents he looks out for. Maybe at the top level he betrayed MI6, sure, but he never did anything against  _us._ He never turned his back on us."

"What is your point, Alec?" James had asked, feeling too muted and tired to be anything but blunt. "Why are you defending him so heavily? If you were saying this to anyone but me-"

"I knew."

Sound had fallen away. The rest of the world no longer mattered, because James Bond had just heard his best friend of almost twenty years admit to knowing that their quartermaster was a traitor. But that couldn't be, right? He must've been extrapolating too far, and that hadn't been what Alec meant at all. But when prompted for explanation, Alec had said

"I knew his real name, knew who his brother was. I have for a long time. And I'm telling you this because-"

James hadn't waited a single moment longer to deck Alec squarely across the jaw, right in the middle of the small, intimate restaurant. They'd been immediately kicked out, of course, thrown onto the street. It hadn't been the first time he'd been removed from a place with Alec, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

"Alright, I deserved that but-" Alec had begun, rubbing his jaw. James, deciding he still wasn't interested in what the other man had to say, had punched his friend once more.

Alec had stumbled back a few steps, frowning, and said, "Alright, maybe I deserved that, too, but James-" Then he'd jerked back out of the way of the next punch James had thrown at him, and tossed his own back, splitting James' lip.

"For fuck's sake, James, listen to me!" Alec had shouted. "They'll kill him, you know that right? They'll torture him for information and then they'll kill him. I'm telling you that I knew who he is because I want you to understand that I dealt with these mixed feelings a long time ago, and he's _still_ always had our backs. I'm telling you this because I need your _help,_ James. I can't get him out alone."

"Get him out?" James had shouted back. "Are you out of your mind? Alec, Q is the leader of a criminal organization that spans the entire world. It doesn't  _matter_ whether or not he ran missions smoothly and kept us alive. That was his  _cover,_  understand? We are done talking about this. Don't mention your feelings to anyone else, or you'll be held on suspicion of treason in a cell right beside Q."

Then he'd walked away, ignoring Alec's pleas for him to stop, heading for MI6. Alec had been asking for his help to break a known traitor out of MI6 custody. There was no way he could do that. No way.

It wasn't until he was holding Q in his arms, the younger man shaking and screaming and pleading with figments of his mind to stop abusing him, that James desperately realized that yes, he was going to help break a known traitor out of MI6 custody. Because this was only going to get worse, and he couldn't stand by and watch them torture and kill Q.

Q, who had, despite all logic, always had his back.

Q who still, despite all reason, held James' affection.

They came up with a plan, him and Alec, but quickly realized that even  _they_ couldn't pull this off alone, not with the extreme amount of security measures throughout the entire building. They at  _least_ needed someone with the computer skills to discreetly control the cameras and erase the logs that showed them using their access codes to utilize the secure exit that they needed to take Q out of.

Alec was the one to suggest involving the rest of the Double-Ohs to make it run more smoothly, and considering they were all already pissed by that fuckup with the drugs, it had barely taken any convincing to get them in on it. It wasn't hard to get R involved eitherthe woman had spent a lot of time around Q and trusted him just like the agents did; she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Leading Q through the halls of MI6 to get to the rendezvous point was the first time James had actually been confronted by the fact that the quartermaster had a plethora of other skills he'd never actually seen or known he'd had. He wished he had the time to learn them all; he wanted to see how good of a marksman Q was, and how well he could fight, and what it looked like when he was using a cover identity for a mission, and...

There was so much more to learn now, not that he'd get the chance. And if things were different, if so many,  _many_ things were different, James would've loved to see Q as an agent, and not just a quartermaster. He would've been  _brilliant,_ no doubt about it.

James didn't know who was driving the fake ambulance, nor where it was taking Q. Frankly, he didn't want to know, because if he knew, he wasn't sure what he'd do. Would he follow, join? Would he sell them out? Would he just keep watch from afar? He didn't want the option.

"I'll see you when I see you, Quartermaster," James murmured, a quiet goodbye, and let the ambulance pull away, watching it until it turned the corner and vanished.

"What do we do now?" 008, Bill Timothy, muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets, squinting against the setting sun.

"We go act like we didn't commit treason," 009, Cassandra Cane, replied dryly. She shared a look with Alec, who nodded his thanks, and then she stepped up to stand next to James, who hadn't moved from his position, still staring down the road.

"Sounds like fun," Eve said, shaking her head. "Anyone up for a drink?"

"We should scatter," 003, Jason Walters, replied, his tone thick with amusement. "If they come to arrest us, we shouldn't make it easy for them by all being in the same pub."

"On the contrary," Cassandra said, glancing back at him with a smirk, "I think I like the idea of MI6 sending a team to attempt to take us all down at once. I think that fight would be spectacular."

"That fight would be easy," Bill corrected, but he was smiling. Treason or not, all of them were feeling a job well done.

James didn't know what he was feeling. Relief, that Q was safe. Bitterness, that he'd been lied to for so long. Anger, that Mycroft Holmes had pulled that shit with the drugs on his own partner. And a sort of numb acceptance for whatever shoe was going to drop, because surely something had to give. There was no way this was going to be pulled off perfectly. He would be a stupid SOB to believe it would.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Eve said, heading back towards the door. "The cameras will be coming back online any moment, and then the panic will set in. We shouldn't hang around the exit used in the escape. Might not look too good for us."

Everyone nodded their agreement and headed out. James didn't move. Neither did Cassandra. Alec hesitated, trying to catch James' eye, then sighed and left after Cassandra nodded to him, a quiet  _I've got this._

James glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was standing much like him, arms crossed over her chest, posture relaxed, staring out into the distance.

He'd always liked Cassandra, because she was a lot like him. Alec was his best friend, but he'd always had a slightly better outlook on life. Not quite optimistic, but certainly kinder. Cassandra, though, shared James' pessimistic realism. She was ruthlessly intelligent, terrifyingly skilled, andmost importantlyshe was perfectly practical. If they were on a mission together and it came down to completing the objective or saving his life, she would complete the objective.

"What's on your mind?" she prompted him.

He considered for a moment. "I'm still wrapping my mind around the fact that four Double-Ohs, M's right-hand-woman, and the second-in-command of Q-branch all conspired to free a traitor from custody with barely any prompting."

"You aren't the only one that gave a shit about him, James," Cassandra pointed out. Her words were aggressive but her tone was not. "Everyone's been going through the same thing you're going through, and they all reached the same decision you did."

James made a sound of acknowledgment. Neither of them said anything for a little while. Inside, there was the faint sound of alarms going off.

"Did you know I served in the army?" Cassandra asked out of left field.

"I did," James confirmed. "Why?"

"I worked mainly in intelligence," Cassandra said, going around the question. "I was a spy in all but name, really. But I started out as a sniper, and a damn good one at that. They would still send me out with teams, when they were in need of a good shot. Snipers are typically independent types, not ones for bonding, especially not with each other. But my CO, he was one of the best snipers the army had ever seen, and I got along with him pretty well.

"He wasn't the queen-and-country kind of guy. He didn't join the army out of patriotic duty, but because he came from a long line of soldiers and had this itch he couldn't scratch unless there was a gun in his hand. I could respect that, and it wasn't like he was going around murdering everyone he came across; he kept himself in tight control. He and  _his_ CO were really close, too, actually. That loyalty ran  _deep."_

James knew there was a point to her telling him this, he just wished she would  _reach_ that reason sooner rather than later.

"Well anyway, MI6 recruited me and he got discharged. On paper it was honorable, but something went down..." She shrugged a shoulder. "Not sure what, but it was covered up, and he left with his medals and reputation intact. He then went out and became an extremely successful mercenary. We're technically on opposite sides, but I think I'd consider him a friend." She glanced at him. "His name is Sebastian Moran, and other than the fact that I care about Q,  _he_ is the reason I just put my entire life on the line."

James stared at Cassandra openly now. She kept her eyes forward.

"I'm telling you this because everyone has their own motivations for doing things. Moneypenny, Walters, Timothytheirs are far purer, a genuine wish to help their friend. But you, Alec, and I?" Her lips quirked upward and she shook her head. "Well,  _we_ have our less-than-pure reasons. Be careful, James. You haven't kept a tight enough lid on your feelings, and you'll be the first person M and Holmes look to."

She met his eyes, steady and unwavering. He nodded. "Time to go."

* * *

Q wasn't sure how to ask whether or not he was hallucinating.

There was no sane, normal way to ask that question, because if you  _weren't_ hallucinating it implied that you  _had_ been, which would be cause for concern. And if you  _were_ hallucinating then there's the obvious problem of the fact that  _you're fucking hallucinating._

So yea, Q was struggling with asking if his dead brother was actually alive or simply a figment of his imagination. If Silva could come back from the grave to haunt him, why not Jim? His brother was certainly stubborn enough to refuse to leave Earth until he was finished with business. Could probably make the devil himself shake in his boots.

The place he'd been takenin an ambulance, apparently, with Sebastian drivingwas a safehouse he recognized; they had many stashed throughout the city and then out into the rest of England. So, a familiar surrounding didn't discount hallucinations. Unfamiliar would be better, help a bit more, but alas.

Sebastian sat him down on a small couch in the living and began checking him over, looking for any injuries. Jim perched himself on the armrest, humming a little tune under his breath, but no onenot Sebastian, not the guard at the door Andrew, not the two gaurds sitting at the kitchen tableacknowledged his presence.

Q really, really,  _really_ wanted someone to acknowledge Jim's presence so he could know if he was fucking crazy or not.

Jim was watching him carefully, like he was trying to figure something out, or like he was waiting for Q to explode, or maybe just examining his little brother after a few days of captivity. Q wasn't sure; he was very tired, and Jim may or may not have been a hallucination, so he was disinclined to indulge in his brother's thought processes.

"What's that from?" Sebastian asked, gesturing towards Q's neck.

On instinct the hacker reached up and prodded the area, wincing when it throbbed at his touch.  _Ah, right. Needle._ "A sedative," he explained, but stopped there. Giving the reason behind why a sedative was administered would be sure to bring up a whole host of other problems, and Q didn't want to get into all of it quite yet.

"Did they give you any other drugs?" Sebastian then followed up with, tilting Q's chin from side to side, looking for another needle mark. He pushed up Q's sleeves, checking the crooks of his elbows.

Well, it wasn't like Q was going to  _lie,_ not when Sebastian was just trying to help, not with Jim watching him so carefully. "In my food; nothing to worry about, just a hallucinogen." His eyes darted, unconsciously, over to Jim, then back to Sebastian. "They thought it would make me talk."

Sebastian grinned at him, lopsided and familiar. "Bet that worked out real well for them."

Q couldn't help but smile back. "Oh, yes. They'll be breaking down our door any second."

He'd only been held prisoner for a couple days, but he was  _exhausted_ now. He'd been running on fumes and already spiraling by the time the Double-Ohs broke him out (and seriously how the  _fuck_ did that come to happen?), and now he was free and with friends and  _safe_ and if he were a lesser man he'd be breaking down right now.

"Sebby, would you give us a moment?" Jim inquired, still not taking his eyes off of Q, and Sebastian didn't hesitate to nod and get to his feet, leaving them alone.

Q's breath caught. Jim was real, Jim was real, JimwasrealJimwasrealJimwasrealJimwasrealJimwasreal

_Jim was alive._

"You  _fucker,"_ Q breathed. He got to his feet, now too agitated to sit still. "You absolute, utter  _fucker."_

Something in Jim's whole being relaxed, a tension Q hadn't even noticed (why hadn't he noticed?) sliding right out of him. "Quite."

"I thought you were dead!" Q shouted, not even  _close_ to done. "I was told that you'd  _killed_ yourselfI saw the photos! Clearly since there  _isn't_ a bullet in your brain, this was a contingency you had  _planned._ Why didn't you tell me about it? Why the fuck would you keep something like that from me?"

Jim smiled up at him, his eyes crinkling. "Alright, I know you're angry, and you have every right to be, but  _hell_ I am so glad to see you in one piece."

That pulled Q up short. "Iwhat? Yes, I'm fine."

His brother hummed, looking him up and down. "You've...had quite the ordeal."

Q snorted, rolling his eyes. "I was only held prisoner for three days, Jim; I'm not made of glass."

"That's not what I was talking about," Jim said, shrugging a shoulder. Q just stared at him, not understanding. "You..." Jim shifted, glancing around. Uncomfortable? Guilty? What was going on? "You've lost quite a lot, and you thought you lost me, so I'm simply saying..." He shook his head and smiled again. "I'm simply glad to see you in one piece. You were worrying me, barely looking at me, barely reacting to anything."

_Well, I didn't know if you were real or not, if any of it was really, so forgive me for being a bit out of it._

Q sighed and sat back down. He rubbed a hand across his face, shoulders slumping. What a fucking day.

Jim was right; he'd truly lost so much. Everything had crumbled,  _everything._ His job, his partner, his friendshe could never have his old life back. He could never hold Mycroft again, or run a mission, or have lunch with Sherlock, or hang out with Bond, or even step foot in his apartment. He was officially a criminal, an enemy of the crown. He could never be anything else.

"Why didn't tell me you had a planned fake suicide?" Q asked bitterly. "Why the fuck wouldn't you tell me that?"

"I didn't make the contingency until I got that text message from you," Jim told him. "The one where you told me something was wrong at MI6 and then we couldn't contact you. I knew I needed a backup after that, just in case." He tilted his head back, examining the cracks on the ceiling. "Frankly if you hadn't sent me that message, if you weren't in trouble, and Sherlock had been saying the things he said...I might've actually done it."

"Christ," Q muttered. He couldn't claim to be  _surprised,_ really, only upset. The idea of Jim committing suicide wasn't one that had never crossed his mindwith the volatility of Jim's emotions, it wasn't a giant leap to see him making that drastic decision one day. But having just lived a couple days believing his brother had taken his own life? Well, it made Q's stomach revolt at the very mention.

"You can't do that to me again," Q said seriously. Jim looked at him, eyes dark and nearly unreadable.  _Vulnerable._ "I just went through your suicide, real or not. I just lived that, Jim, and it..." _It almost destroyed me._ He shook his head. "You can't ever do it again. We both know it was always a possibility, you... _doing_ that, but I'm officially removing it from the table."

One side of Jim's lips quirked upwards. His eyes didn't change. "You're banning me from committing suicide? Is this an actual conversation we're having right now?"

"Yes," Q said, tone brokering no argument. "You've used up your suicide, Jim. I lived through it and the world believes you're dead. You are never again allowed to take your own life, real or fake. It's been removed from the table, no longer an option. I won't even entertain the possibility. And neither will you."

"Ok," Jim said quietly. "Ok, Jamie. We're ok now. And don't you worry, I'm going to be around for a  _long_ time bugging you."

"However will I survive," Q said dryly, and the pair of brothers shared a grin, both relaxing a bit more fully. They were together again, and relatively safe; there were many problems they still had to handle, but for the moment, they were ok.

"Boss," Sebastian said as he reentered the room, nodding to both of them, "he's on the phone."

Q rose an eyebrow. Jim winced.

"What did you do?" Q asked suspiciously.

Jim bit his lip. "So, we're kind of in a position where we need... _assistance._ Our network is going crazy, thinking I'm dead, or wondering if Sherlock was actually me, or any other number of stupid things. And since I have to  _stay_ dead for a little while longer, we need a bit of help controlling our unruly people, just until things have settled."

Q narrowed his eyes, and then it clicked. "Oh my god, you didn't. Please tell me you didn't strike a bargain with thatthat  _lunatic!"_

"Many would say  _I'm_ a lunatic, so like calls to like I suppose-"

"Oh, don't give me that bullshit, Jim, you fucking know what I meant-"

"Then you shouldn't have  _said-"_

"He is obsessive, possessive, controlling, egomaniacal, sociopathic, and downright  _murderous!_ He would not hesitate to run us into the ground. You're baring our  _neck_ and hoping he doesn't rip out our throat!"

Jim tilted his head, considering that. Then he said, "Sharks are circling anyway, Q. Better the shark we understand than the ones we don't."

"Oh, and you don't think he'll mind the fact that we've been screwing with his business deals for a few months? You don't think he'll be a little bit _pissed_ and decide to take it out on us when you are  _literally_ inviting him to mess around with our shit?"

"Uh, guys?" Sebastian interrupted. "I still have him on the phone. I mean, I've muted us, but he doesn't seem the type to want to wait for a response."

Q glared at his brother. Jim held out a hand to Sebastian, who passed him the phone. Q threw up his hands, slumping back into the couch.

"Are we even making decisions together anymore?" the hacker muttered, and started making plans and contingencies. Clearly Jim was set on this course of action, and, like always, Q would be ready to back him up if  _(when)_ it all went to shit.

"Mr. Blofeld," Jim said smoothly into the phone, "how nice to hear from you."

* * *

Mycroft stood absently in his living room, staring at nothing as he tried to make sense of the last day.

He'd escaped. James had,  _somehow,_ managed to turn off all the cameras, get out of his cell, get to the surface, and make his getaway in a car that had simply vanished. _Somehow_ a prisoner with zero access to anything had made the perfect escape, leaving not a trace.

The worst part was that Mycroft  _knew_ he hadn't done it alone. Agents Trevelyan and Bond had been far too angry after the drugging to just sit idly by; _all_ of the Double-Ohs really. Honestly Mycroft and M should've seen this coming. They'd overestimated that group's dedication to MI6 and greatly underestimated the fondness they held for the ex-Quartermaster.

But even  _worse_ than the fact that they  _knew_ treason had just been committed? They couldn't  _prove_ it. The agents had done what they were good at and left not a single trace. They'd all been so tightlipped and blasé when questioned that Mycroft couldn't even be sure how many of the group had been involved. Surely Trevelyan and Bond, but who else?

Mycroft couldn't get Bond's face out of his mind from when he and M confronted the agent. Bond had stared back steadily, unflinching in the face of Mycroft's fury and M's demands. In fact, he'd looked at Mycroft like  _he_ was the traitor, like  _he_ was in the wrong, like  _he_ hadn't been the one betrayed by someone who'd claimed to love him.

And then, when Bond had been dismissed from M's officeand suspended from dutyhe'd turned to Mycroft and said,  _"He was raped, Mr. Holmes, and you made him relive that. He put his faith in you and in M, and you went too far. And I doubt you were going to stop there."_

 _"I put my faith in him as well,"_ Mycroft had replied coldly, eyes narrowed,  _"and yet I'm not the one who committed treason."_

But the wordsand the guilthad stuck with him, which simply made Mycroft angry at himself. He shouldn't be made to feel bad about this. James Moriarty was a traitor, a terrorist, a criminal who had betrayed their country time and time again.  _Mycroft_ shouldn't have to feel guilty about doing what needed to be done in order to get information on a world-wide criminal network.

Frankly, the fact that James had been left relatively unharmed as long as he had was simply proof of Mycroft weakness.  _Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side._ How accurate that was. James had beaten him, had had him in the palm of his hand for three and a half years. _God,_ how stupid he'd been. It had felt too good to be true, and that hadn't sent up enough warning bells in his mind.

And then, on a completely separate issue, he now had to handle Sherlock's questions. James had made enough overtures within the younger Holmes' hearing to make him very curious about what Mycroft was hiding from him. Mycroft was doing his best to placate his brother, but it was only a matter of time before Sherlock discovered the existence of Euros. Just another problem James had presented him with.

 _He'd backed down,_ Mycroft's mind reminded him, much to the man's disdain.  _James had had the opportunity to tell Sherlock about Euros since he had nothing to lose, but he'd backed down. Why?_

All of his doubts and guilt and anger were what led to him just standing in his living room, staring at nothing, unable to get himself to do anything.

A sound from outside startled Mycroft from his stupor and he blinked at the door, frowning when he heard the lock undo itself. He'd barely gotten enough control of himself to back away when the door swung open, admitting a large blonde man who aimed a gun at himSebastian Moran, the loyal soldier to James Moriarty(s).

Mycroft's slight panic over a skilled mercenary entering his home faded to background noise when he saw the person who entered behind Moran. Looking like he'd had a shower and maybe a nap since his imprisonment, James seemed much better. Calmer, more in control, and something so very  _determined_ in his gaze.

Part of Mycrofta small,  _small_ part that he'd never acknowledgewas relieved to see the younger man still alive. The last time they'd spoken, it had been obvious that James didn't see much to live for anymore, not with his brother dead. Mycroft had thought it highly possible that James might've escaped only to go put a bullet in his brain.

Instead, James seemed  _better._ It was odd, and even a little unnerving. Ever since he learned about his brother's death his eyes had been dead and lifeless, reflecting what James was feeling inside. Now, though;  _now_ he was settled, confident, like the grief of the past few days had simply been wiped away.

"Hello, Mycroft," James said with a soft smile. "I was hoping we could talk."

Almost unbidden, Mycroft's eyes flicked to the assassin still pointing a gun at him. James saw the motion and grimaced, turning to Moran.

"Wait outside, would you?" he said, and Mycroft was slightly surprised by how James phrased it like a question instead of an order, and how _familiar_ the pair seemed with each other; he wouldn't have guessed that the heads of a criminal empire gave a shit about their soldiers, but he supposed Moran had been at their side for a long timethat probably built strong ties.

Moran rose an eyebrow at his boss, slightly incredulous, and James cracked a smile.

"He's not going to attack me, Seb," James said, then glanced at Mycroft appraisingly. "Or, if he does, I'll  _shout."_

With a snort, Moran said, "Yea, you don't have a habit of shouting for help when I'm just outside." James scowled at him and Moran rolled his eyes, holstering the gun. He looked at Mycroft, and his gaze hardened. "You try anything and I  _will_ shoot you."

"Understood," Mycroft murmured, going over that statement from before in his head.  _You don't have a habit of shouting for help when I'm just outside,_ the mercenary had said. That clearly meant something to the pair of them, and Mycroft was very curious about the instance when James had put himself in harm's way.

The door shut behind Moran, leaving Mycroft and James alone. The older man stared at his ex-partner, eyes narrowed.

"Why are you here, Mr. Moriarty?" Mycroft asked coldly.

James' jaw twitched at the use of his last name. "We didn't leave things well," he said slowly, clearly choosing his words carefully. "And I'm not going to see you again for a long while, so I wanted to...say goodbye."

Mycroft examined him. "You're leaving London," he observed.

James nodded, smiling wryly. "It's safer to get out of the country right now, I think. Besides, your brother is about to go out into the world and attempt to destroy everything Jim and I built, our life's work. I can't just let him do it, so I have to go strengthen some areas."

There was no hitch over his brother's name. Any reference to his brother had caused a hitch in his breathing, back in that cell. A clear sign of his grief. But the hitch was gone.  _Why? And why does he seem so calm?_

"You seem...well," Mycroft said, curious to see if James would give an explanation.

The hacker's brow furrowed and he glanced down at himself, but then laughed lightly, his eyes crinkling. "Nothing like a shower and a seven-hour nap to settle the soul, hmm? Whywere you worried about me?"

Behind his teasing tone, he sounded hopeful, vulnerable. Mycroft wished he wouldn't, and the urge to  _hurt_ rose in him.

He sneered. "I thought you might take your own life, since you seemed to completely lose the will to live after you found out your brother was dead." He rose an eyebrow. "Moved on from _Jim's_ death already? Shouldn't be surprised by the practicality of a sociopath."

James' gentle expression shuttered and then closed off, turning cold. "Do not speak of my brother. You still have both of your siblings; mine was taken from me. Don't mock what you could never understand."

Mycroft ignored his twinge of guilt. Honestly, out of the two of them,  _he_ was  _not_ the one who should have to feel bad!

"Is that all, then?" Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow, as if none of this bothered him. "If so, it's time for you to leave."

James licked his lips, his eyes flicking away nervously, and then back. "I-" He cut himself off, his hands twitching at his sides. "Could you..." He sighed, seeming irritated at himself, and then rose his chin and asked, "If you were ordered to kill me, could you do it?"

"Before your escape," Mycroft said calmly, "I was advocating for your immediate termination."

James jerked back like he'd been slapped, his expression horrified. Mycroft shoved down the instinctive urge to help, to make it better, to take away his partner's pain. He couldn't. Not anymore.

"Oh," the younger man said faintly, blinking rapidly. "Oh. Right, of-of course. I should...go, then." He glanced around, almost in a daze. "Yes. Right. Good...goodbye, then, Mycroft."

Mycroft wanted to take it all back. He wanted to say he didn't mean it, that it was just him trying to snuff out his weakness, that killing James would be like chopping off his own limb, how without him life felt so much grayer than the gorgeous colors James had allowed him to see.

He spoke very much against his own will. "James-" he called haltingly, taking a step forward, and James flinched. The idea of this man who'd been  _is_ for three and a half years being _afraid_ of him was terrible, though he supposed after a declaration like that he deserved it.

"I'll leave you alone now," James said quietly, and he wouldn't meet his eyes. He'd curled in on himself slightly, as if to protect himself from anything else Mycroft might say or do, and it broke Mycroft's heart. "I'mI'm sorry for coming here. I'd hoped to..." He shook his head. "Nevermind. I'm sorry for everything, Mycroft. I'm so sorry. I-"

"Why did you come today, James?" Mycroft asked lowly.

James didn't say anything at first, body still curved, eyes still downcast, and he looked so terribly _young._ James was only twenty-nine years old but he'd always felt older, his intelligence and confidence pushing him past his years, despite what his complexion said. But nowhe looked so small, so young, like the blow of Mycroft's words had sucked everything that made him _him_ right out of him.

"I love you," James murmured, staring at the ground. A small, rueful smile curved his lips. "During our seventh date you asked me why I was with you, and I told you all of the things I loved about you, and then I said that being with you makes me happy. These three and a half years, Mycroft, they have been...you make me so,  _so_ happy, and I just wanted to see you again." He snorted. "I wanted to tell you about myself, actually, but I see now that I came here with far too much idealism. Not a weakness I'm typically inclined to, so this is odd for me."

"...What do you mean by tell me about yourself?"

But James shook his head. "Doesn't matter now," he said quietly. "I don't think I should share intimate details of my person with the man who wants me dead. My brother would've strongly advised against it."

 _I don't want you dead,_ Mycroft thought, but simultaneously _If you were dead, this would all be so much simpler._

He couldn't say any of that, though. James was a traitor and a liar and undeserving. Mycroft would tell himself that as many times as it took for it to stick.

"Other than Trevelyan and Bond, who aided in your escape?" he asked.

James turned for the door, ignoring the question. "Goodbye, Mycroft. I hope you live a long and happy life."

"James-" Mycroft started, then stopped, unsure what he would even say. Before he could think of something, James was out the door and gone.

"I love you, too," he murmured to the empty air, and promised himself it would be the last time he ever said it.


End file.
